


A Very Cold Case

by sagestreet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Coming Out, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post The Great Game, Puzzles, References to Homophobia, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Snowed In, Travelogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagestreet/pseuds/sagestreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Violin music, 19th-century poets, and a string of puzzles presented to Sherlock by an enigmatic client (or adversary?), who prefers to stay in the shadows</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction: Cantabile & 1. Chapter: Allegro risoluto

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted on livejournal. For masterpost go to: http://sagestreet.livejournal.com/
> 
> I owe great thanks to my beta reader evildrem (on lj), who read it and encouraged me to post it.

**Title:** A Very Cold Case

**Pairing:** (eventual) John/Sherlock

**Rating:** PG

**Spoilers:** Vaguely for series 1 & one tiny reference to book!canon in this part

**Warnings:** None for this part

**Summary:** _Violin music, 19_ _ th_ _-century poets, and a string of puzzles presented to Sherlock by an enigmatic client (or adversary?), who prefers to stay in the shadows_

 

(A/N: Sherlock is playing P. I. Tchaikovsky's [Valse sentimentale](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rUuusqy50yk) in F minor, op. 51 № 6.)

 

** A Very Cold Case **

 

**Introduction: Cantabile**

 

“What was that? That … thing you were playing just now? It was nice.“

 

“ _Nice?_ “ The derisive sneer in Sherlock's voice was unmistakable. “It's not nice, John. It's perfect.“

 

“Okay, yes,“ John conceded in exasperation. “But what was it?“

 

“Tchaikovsky.“

 

“Oh, er … right … Tchaikovsky.“

 

Now he was seriously racking his brain. Who was this Tchaikowsky guy again? Russian bloke, no doubt there.

 

“Is that the guy who wrote _The Nutcracker Suite_?“

 

God, did he hope he had got that right; the last time he had heard it had probably been in primary school. It had been a nice piece, though.

 

The expression on Sherlock's pale face, however, changed to an almost disdainful one immediately. “Oh, please. That's so unoriginal.“

 

“ _This_ from the man who denies heliocentrism,“ John muttered.

 

There was a loud whooshing noise as Sherlock made a fencing move with his violin bow, and John thought it was funny how both, the bow and the man's sharp nose, were suddenly angled upward, towards the ceiling.

 

“Revolving around some boring star is a repetitive and predictable affair. Revolving around the giants of 19th-century music, however, is what makes our dull existence worthwhile,“ Sherlock declared pointedly, bow still raised as if he were about to stab someone.

 

“Except that that 'boring star' is the sun that provides all the energy and warmth for our planet,“ John muttered under his breath, quickly adding, “Look, Sherlock, don't you ever listen to normal music?“

 

“Warmth is overrated. And if by 'normal' you mean that racket you were listening to in the shower this morning …“

 

“Racket?! That was an old Beatles song!“ John exclaimed.

 

Sherlock put the violin on his knee and started plucking at its strings distractedly. “Are they any good?“

 

“Are they– ? _Are you serious?_ The Beatles!“

 

“Yes, I heard you just fine. Thank you, John.“

 

“Oh, you know what? Forget it.“ John shook his head in utter exasperation. “What sort of music do _you_ like, then?“

 

Something came alive in Sherlock's pale eyes in that moment, as if a little spark had been ignited in them. “German music. It's more introspective than French or Italian music.“

 

“O-okay. And who are we talking here? Er … Bach?“

 

“19th century, John! Don't you ever listen?! Mendelssohn, Brahms, Bruch.“

 

“Oh … er … alright.“

 

“Though Russian music can be utterly delightful as well,“ Sherlock added thoughtfully. “The passion, the intensity.“

 

“Now, those are words I would have never thought I'd hear you say,“ John sniggered, which earned him a sharp look. “Er … well … that … ahem … Tchaikovsky thing you were playing earlier, can you play it again? It was rather nice.“

 

This time, the look he got was indignant, bordering on scathing.

 

But then those ridiculously elegant hands picked up the violin again, tucking it under a chiselled chin.

 

“Not nice, John. Perfect.“

 

♫♪♫

 

The letter arrived a few weeks later.

 

Sherlock had been in one of his dark moods for days now – so much so that John had even rung up Lestrade behind his flatmate's back to find out if the 'delinquency fermata' (as Sherlock had put it) was over yet. Unfortunately, the criminal classes were apparently still lying dormant at the moment.

 

They could have died out altogether, for all John cared. He definitely needed some rest after Moriarty had met his timely end. It was Sherlock he was worried about.

 

And there was only so much violin music he could put up with at 3am every night. Especially, if said music did include neither Brahms nor Tchaikovsky and sounded more as if Sherlock were trying to strangle Mrs Hudson's poor cat in the living room in the middle of the night. Which he _was_ , for all John knew.

 

That was why the letter was a welcome distraction from all the brooding and shooting the walls. It was, however, also the first bar of an unpredictable score …

 

“So, is it from the bloke who wanted your help earlier this year? The one who could be hanged?“

 

“Hm?“ Sherlock scratched the back of his head with the letter opener absent-mindedly. “Oh, no, no, no, John. That was in Belarus. The letter is from Moscow.“

 

“New case? That sounds promising.“ John set down a cup of tea in front of his friend, who didn't deem it worthy of his attention. “What's that in your hand, then?“

 

“Aeroplane ticket to Moscow.“

 

“Must be important, then,“ John pointed out, lowering himself onto the chair opposite Sherlock's. “Who's the client?“

 

“I … don't know,“ Sherlock murmured slowly, still staring at the letter in his hand, a frown on his sharply angled face. “This note came with it.“

 

John picked up the small slip of paper. It read:

 

_I know how you love puzzles. This might be the grandest of them all._

 

He looked up in confusion. “That's all? Nothing about the case? That's ridiculous.“

 

“Intriguing.“

 

“You're not really considering flying to Moscow because of _that_ , are you?“

 

“I won't …“

 

“Good. That's good.“

 

“ _We_ ,however, will.“

 

“What?“

 

“Twotickets, John. Whoever sent this knows exactly who we are and how we operate.“

 

“I'm not flying halfway around the world just because some madman you know nothing about sent you a mysterious note.“

 

“Moscow's not halfway around the world. (Although I'll admit that you're the resident expert on the layout of our planet.) And it's not that I know _nothing_ about the client,“ Sherlock lectured him, finally picking up his cup and taking a careful sip.

 

“So, you _do_ know something about them, then?“

 

Sherlock looked up, and John felt mesmerised by the same spark that ignited in those slate grey eyes again; it was almost as if they were back to talking about violin music.

 

“Someone of considerable wealth. A traveller. Highly intelligent. Well-educated. Left-handed. Has connections to and influence on the Russian authorities. It's not much, I admit. But it's enough to be tantalisingly interesting.“

 

“You got all that from that letter?“

 

“Yes, John.“ Sherlock sounded impatient. “The wording of the note suggests that its author knows about the Moriarty case. It's almost an allusion to Moriarty's puzzles. Means that whoever wrote this has been keeping a very close eye on me. Means he's established clandestine connections with people in our environment. Hence, he's not simply sitting around in Moscow; he was here. In London. He even seems to know me so well that he's decided to not write the note by hand. He knows I'd be able to tell all sorts of things from his handwriting. No, it was printed and cut out. Neatly, but not overly so. The angle at which the scissors clipped the edges suggests that he is left-handed.“

 

“You said 'well-educated',“ John pointed out, trying to ignore the slight shiver that had just run down his spine at the mention of Moriarty's name.

 

“Just a hunch, I have to admit. But it says 'grandest'. You, for example, wouldn't say 'grandest', John.“

 

“Hang on, are you saying I'm not well-educated?“ John exclaimed.

 

“Weeeell …“

 

“Fail to recognise one odd sonata and pay for it the rest of your life,“ John muttered darkly.

 

“It was Bartók,“ Sherlock stated calmly, as if that were an argument in itself.

 

“Bartók v Copernicus: one-nil,“ John growled.

 

At that, the great detective leaned back in his chair, raising one elegant eyebrow.

 

“Oh, never mind,“ John huffed.“What about his connections, then? You said something about influence.“

 

“You can't just travel to Moscow like that, John. You need a visa. Now, there are two visas enclosed. If you had ever tried to get a visa issued at the Russian Embassy, you'd know that it is a tedious affair that can take weeks. And, usually, you don't get one without signing a hundred different documents. Our visas were both stamped and dated on the same day. Means they weren't lying around for very long. Someone must have forged our passports, faked our signatures and bribed the right people to do this. Money and connections.“

 

“Brilliant!“

 

Sherlock looked at him quizzically over his cup. And then, only for the fraction of a second, John caught the glimpse of an honest, warm smile on the man's face. “Brilliant enough to convince you to come with me?“

 

**Title:** A Very Cold Case

**Pairing:** (eventual) John/Sherlock

**Rating:** PG

**Spoilers:** Vaguely for series 1

**Warnings:** None for this chapter

**Summary:** _Violin music, 19_ _ th_ _-century poets, and a string of puzzles, presented to Sherlock by an enigmatic client (or adversary?), who prefers to stay in the shadows_

 

**1\. Chapter: Allegro risoluto**

 

The flight went fine, though John kept fidgeting nervously in his seat, seeing as he just didn't trust the old Aeroflot plane that much. Sherlock, however, seemed perfectly at ease, not at all bothered by the constant roar of the engines or the whining children across the aisle.

 

He didn't seem to spare the good-looking Russian flight attendant a second look either, engrossed in his book as he was, and John gave the poor girl an apologetic smile when Sherlock failed to respond to any of her questions.

 

Sitting sprawled in his seat, occupying both their armrests, long legs tucked gracefully into the narrow space in front of them, the world's first and only consulting detective looked as if he hadn't even noticed they weren't in their sitting room at Baker Street anymore.

 

From the corner of his eyes, John could just make out that the book his friend was reading was in German. Of course, the smug bastard had to show off. John shook his head, affectionate smile spreading across his face. Just the other day, he had walked in on Sherlock speaking French on the phone, face furrowed in deep concentration. And although John had managed to forget most of the language since school, he had been struck by how impressively fluent and melodious it had sounded coming from Sherlock's lips.

 

With societal norms, however, Sherlock seemed rather out of tune.

 

Upon arrival at Sheremetyevo Airport, the man strode right out into the busy hall, leaving John to wonder when he had become his friend's personal porter. _Yes, right. Let the small man carry both suitcases!_

 

He had barely caught up with Sherlock's tall figure in the crowd when they were suddenly stopped by an old, haggard man. “Sherlock Holmes?“

 

John felt the corners of his mouth twitch at the sound of the rolled 'r' in 'Sherlock'.

 

“Меня прислали за вами, мистер Холмс.“

 

_Here we go,_ John thought, feeling his smile fade instantly.If this man didn't speak English, they were stuffed.

 

He was about to blurt out an apology when, to his utter surprise, Sherlock nodded solemnly and replied something in fluent Russian.

 

“Hang on, you speak Russian as well?“

 

There was a short silence, during which Sherlock eyeballed him from the side as if to say, _Honestly! How long have you known me?_

 

“Of course, I do.“

 

John threw up his hands. “Okay. What did he say?“

 

“He said he was sent to pick us up.“

 

“Sent by whom?“

 

Sherlock turned to the old man and asked something.

 

John was beginning to feel rather helpless, looking back and forth between the two of them, listening to the soft vowels falling from Sherlock's bow-shaped lips and watching the other man shrug and reply something.

 

“He says he's got no idea who sent him here. He's just an ordinary cab driver, who was apparently offered a whole lot of money to drive us to Moscow city centre. Not that he's said _that_ , but that's quite obvious, isn't it?“

 

“Obvious? How– ? Oh, never mind. We can't just follow him.“

 

“Why not?“

 

“Remember what happened the last time you went with a strange cabbie?“

 

“Exactly. That was so much fun!“

 

“I fail to see what's fun about killing someone to save your friend's life.“

 

For the merest second, Sherlock's grey eyes seemed to grow warmer, changing to a dark shade of charcoal; then he turned away sharply and strode out of the crowded hall, leaving John to wonder whether he had imagined the whole thing.

 

The cabbie, for his part, said something in Russian and gave John a sympathetic smile, picking up their luggage to carry it out to the car.

 

_Well, at least somebody is trying to be polite,_ John thought, nodding and saying, “Da, da“ to the cabbie, as this was the only Russian word he knew.

 

Outside, he was greeted by Sherlock's smug grin. “See? Someone paid him well.“

 

♫♪♫

 

For some reason, John had expected a shiny black Maybach or some other ridiculously expensive vehicle to be parked outside. A limousine with tinted windows maybe, sent by a nouveau-riche Russian oligarch.

 

However, this turned out to be a cliché. The car was a rusty old wreck of a Lada, one side window of which, as he realised a few moments later, didn't close anymore. Of course, it was _him_ who ended up sitting next to that window, freezing cold air from outside hitting him square in the face as the car sped up.

 

And how on earth could it be so cold when the sun was shining?

 

The cab driver said something, smile evident in his voice.

 

“He says the window is frozen; that's why it won't close,“ Sherlock translated in a bored voice. “And now stop fidgeting; it's quite unnerving.“

 

“Well, Sherlock, _it's cold_ , in case you haven't noticed.“

 

“It's Russia,“ Sherlock shrugged non-committally.

 

“Great!“ John huffed. “Back home, it was spring already.“

 

Here, everything was covered in snow, the cars outside turning it into a dirty, brownish slush.

 

The dry, icy wind was hitting one side of his face and felt positively arctic against his skin, and somehow he doubted he would get out of this without catching a bad strain of pneumonia. In any case, his cheeks felt frozen and numb already.

 

“R-remember what happened the last t-time you decided to let yourself be lured into solving someone's puzzles? We almost ended up d-dead in that s-swimming pool,“ he pointed out, barely hearing his own voice over the chattering of his teeth.

 

“And what could have been better and nobler than dying for one's best friend and for the sake of humanity?“ Sherlock's deep baritone replied, seemingly unaffected by the cold.

 

John snorted, but it came out more like a desperate quack of a duck that was about to freeze to the ice on its pond.

 

“So, what are your d-deductions so far?“ he asked to distract himself from the fact that he couldn't feel his ears anymore.

 

Sherlock raised his head, his eyes meeting the cabbie's in the rear-view mirror.

 

“He's completely unimportant. Happy to earn some money on the side. But not worth our attention. You two have got something in common, by the way: he's an Afghanistan veteran too; that much is obvious. Served in the same country, but not in the same war.“

 

At the word 'Afghanistan', the cabbie looked up curiously, and he and Sherlock exchanged a few words in Russian again.

 

“As I said, Afghanistan,“ Sherlock affirmed in a flat voice.

 

John cleared his throat, seeing an opening for a conversation and deciding to go for it. After all, he needed something to distract himself with, and he was honestly curious to find out more about the cabbie's life story.

 

“Какого чёрта вы американцы в Афганистан полезли?“

 

“What did he say?“

 

“He thinks we are American (which only further illustrates my point that he's completely unimportant in this game), and he's just berated you for invading Afghanistan. Undoubtedly, he will now go on to tell you that what didn't work for the Soviets back in 1979, won't work for the West now. And that invading Afghanistan was a terrible mistake. So, you'll excuse me if I leave you to what will undoubtedly turn out to be a dull and predictable conversation.“

 

Sherlock squared his shoulders, body language clearly indicating that he wasn't willing to play  interpreter any longer, and flipped open his book.

 

“He's always like that,“ John told the cabbie unnecessarily, shaking his head in annoyance.

 

But of course, the other man didn't understand him, and so they fell silent.

 

John twisted in his seat to gaze out the open window, an _ostinato_ of angry thoughts flashing through his mind.

 

Sherlock could have at least shown some common courtesy.Here John was, going out of his way to assist him. Travelling to Russia with him. On a whim. And all he got for his pains was the prospect of catching the worst bout of flu this side of 1918 or being smashed in a car accident. Because, frankly, that cabbie was driving like Anderson on speed. As were most of the other drivers outside in the snow.

 

And he had thought London traffic was bad! These people were driving as if they actually _meant_ to kill one another.

 

From the corner of his eyes, he could see Sherlock read, a small crease forming between the man's elegant eyebrows. John squinted at the book in his friend's hand. He could just make out the first name of the author on the cover. It was a Klaus Something-or-other, apparently.

 

Despite his anger, he felt a smile spread across his face at the sight. He couldn't help himself, and the bastard probably didn't deserve it, but he felt an inexplicable warmth in the pit of his stomach, marvelling at how at ease Sherlock seemed even under the strangest of circumstances, at home even in a rocking taxi.

 

How did the man even manage to read like this? John, for his part, wouldprobably be sick all over the car seat within a minute. Unless his oesophagus was frozen shut already, he mused.

 

♫♪♫

 

It took them some time and effort (and a long string of Russian swear words on the cabbie's part, which Sherlock refrained from translating) to get to the city centre.

 

Then the taxi gave a sudden jolt as the cabbie drove up onto the pavement of a wide, busy boulevard, almost ending up in the glass front window of a shop and scattering terrified pedestrians, who had to jump aside to avoid being hit. He honked his horn for emphasis, flinging the car door open unceremoniously.

 

“So, where are we supposed to go?“ John asked, still trying to catch his breath after the bumpy ride.

 

Sherlock snapped his book shut and talked to the cabbie for a minute. When he turned around again, his face bore a slightly bemused expression.

 

“He says he doesn't know. He is supposed to drop us off somewhere in the city centre and pass on a message: 'Pushkin'. I've asked him if there was anything else. But he insists this is the only information he was given.“

 

“Just 'Pushkin'? Nothing else?“

 

“Apparently.“

 

They both got out of the taxi, and John reached into his pocket, suddenly realising that he didn't have any currency.

 

The cabbie, however, didn't seem to mind; he exclaimed something, gnarly hands raised in protest, and John was surprised to recognise yet another Russian word: “Nyet! Nyet! Nyet!“

 

Instead of demanding money, the old man then proceeded to shove a heavy envelope into John's hands.

 

It was filled with crisp rouble notes.

 

“He says he is supposed to give us the money and deliver our luggage to our hotel.“

 

“But– “

 

The engine roared up, and the Lada bounced back onto the street, nearly colliding with another car.

 

John blinked once, then once again, and the taxi was gone, leaving them standing on the street corner, pedestrians bustling by and bumping into their shoulders.

 

♫♪♫

 

“Sherlock, where are you going?“

 

Catching up with the tall figure purposefully striding down the crowded boulevard wasn't exactly an easy feat, but being left to one's own devices in a city one didn't know, among people whose language one didn't speak, didn't seem like an option.

 

“Right … then left … then onto Tverskaya …“ Sherlock was muttering under his breath, that was coming out in white plumes due to the cold. “… traffic lights … pedestrian crossing … onto Tverskoy Boulevard …“

 

“Don't tell me you know the layout of Moscow _as well_?“

 

“There is nothing bad in knowing the major European metropolises a little,“ Sherlock defended himself in indignation.

 

“ _A little?_ Are you some sort of …“ _autistic savant,_ John wanted to say, but thought better of it for some reason, trying instead to keep up with Sherlock's long strides, hiding his hands in his pockets for warmth and hunching his shoulders against the icy wind.

 

He wasn't entirely sure his trainers would survive the snow. Inwardly, he was already bidding farewell to his toes as well. (And why on earth hadn't he thought of bringing something warm to wear? A pair of boots, a hat, gloves?)

 

“Where are we going?“

 

“Pushkin,“ the warm baritone replied loudly over the noise of the traffic.

 

“Yes. _And?_ “

 

But apparently, this was all the great detective intended to say, and John almost slipped in the snow, trying to keep up with his friend's ridiculously long legs, people bumping into him and swearing.

 

They didn't need to walk very far, but it was far enough to make John shiver inside out.

 

Actually, he was fairly certain that the street thermometer they had just passed had shown -18 °C; his hands, in any case, felt numb already.

 

They ended up in a nice big square, and he would have probably enjoyed taking a stroll around it, had he been here as a tourist. White snow caps were covering the trees, making for a magical picture, and a group of laughing children were engaged in a vicious snowball fight.

 

Sherlock, however, didn't really seem to take in the surroundings. Dashing across the snow-covered square, apparently not at all afraid of losing his footing, the detective hurried over to a tall bronze statue standing on a stone pedestal surrounded by four ornate street lamps.

 

It was here that John finally managed to catch up with his decidedly triumphant-looking friend.

 

“So, who's that?“

 

“What?“ Sherlock turned around in irritation.

 

“That bloke. On the pedestal.“

 

This question was met with one of Sherlock's more eleborate eyerolls.

 

“Seriously, John?“

 

“Er … yes. He looks funny with that snow cap on his head, doesn't he? Well, at least _he_ isn't cold, right?“

 

“That's the Pushkin monument,“ Sherlock bristled.

 

John could feel it, the way his own mouth suddenly formed a perfectly round 'o' _._

 

“You think this is where our mysterious client wanted us to go?“ he asked, treading from one foot to the other, trying to warm up a bit.

 

Sherlock didn't respond; he was already climbing up the few stairs to the monument, whipping out his magnifying glass.

 

John was fairly certain that the few old women, who, despite the cold, were sitting on a bench nearby, were eyeballing them suspiciously. This, however, didn't seem to deter the world's first and only consulting detective in the slightest: he was hopping up and down the stairs, running around the statue, reading the inscription again and again, muttering to himself, not seeming to care if anyone thought he was insane.

 

When he returned to John's side, there was a decidedly disappointed look in his grey eyes. “I don't get it,“ he murmured softly.

 

“Now, that's a phrase I don't hear you use that often,“ John snorted, blowing into his folded hands to keep them from freezing.

 

Sherlock didn't seem to pay him any attention. “I don't see it … There _has_ to be a clue. There must be something … something …“ he muttered under his breath. “It doesn't make any sense … Something in the inscription, maybe. It _must_ be there. I just don't see where it … John?“ He suddenly whipped around.

 

“Yes.“

 

“Care to describe to me what you see?“

 

“Er … a statue … covered in snow,“ John provided with a shrug. “And there is a bridal couple, laying flowers at it.“ He stretched out his cold, shaking finger, pointing at a bride and groom walking towards the monument.

 

“Russian custom. Never mind that,“ Sherlock interrupted him impatiently. “What about the statue?“

 

“Er … it's made of bronze.“

 

“Good.“

 

“It's a man … God, the chap really needs a shave. Look at those sideburns.“

 

“It's Pushkin!“ Sherlock exclaimed furiously. “You're really useless, you know that?!“

 

“Well, _thanks a lot!_ At least now I know why you wanted me to come along on this trip.“

 

“You can't just stand there and make fun of the grooming habits of Russia's greatest poet,“ Sherlock stated, not even trying to apologise. On the contrary, he looked absolutely livid, as if John had somehow personally offended him.

 

“Well, it's a statue. What do you want me to say?“ John sighed wearily, rubbing his upper arms with his hands in an attempt to restore his circulation.

 

Sherlock shook his head, dark curls glistening in the golden afternoon sunlight. “There must be something. Our client wouldn't have sent us here if– “

 

“Maybe he didn't send us here.“

 

A pair of sharp grey eyes suddenly appeared in John's line of sight, much too close, breathtakingly bright and alert. “What do yo mean?“

 

“Maybe he sent us to … to some café called _Pushkin_. Or to a Pushkin museum. Or maybe … maybe …“

 

“There is a town called Pushkin about 400 miles north of Moscow,“ Sherlock suggested.

 

“Well, we're not walking _there_ ,“ John blurted out. “I've had quite enough already. Flying to Moscow on a whim just because someone sent you a stupid note. Standing around in the cold, wondering if my frozen toes will be the next severed body parts you'll be experimenting on. And all because some creep out there knows about your obsession with all of these … these Pushkins and Tchaikovskys, and you're actually desperate enough to come here and– “

 

“Say that again,“ Sherlock interrupted him, roughly grabbing his arm. God, John could feel the man's warmth through his sleeve.

 

“Er … you're actually desperate enough to come here?“

 

“No, the other part. The bit about Pushkin and Tchai– Oh. _Oh!_ “

 

Sherlock's epiphanies were dazzling moments in which time stood still, or so it seemed to John. Moments in which his friend's face momentarily bore an almost orgasmic expression.

 

John could watch them unfold over and over again: the way Sherlock's mouth opened slightly, the way his eyes widened and began to sparkle, the way his long hands flew up as if to grasp the air, latching onto an idea that seemed volatile enough to fly away.

 

“Oh, stupid … stupid!“

 

Now he was already tapping away furiously on his mobile, looking for something. _That'll be quite a bill once we come home,_ John thought, shaking his head with an exasperated smile.

 

“Pushkin! Of course!“ Sherlock cried out, not even caring that he had probably just ruined a photograph for a few Japanese tourists by jumping into the frame. “John, you are a genius!“

 

There was a hint of colour in Sherlock's pale cheeks now.

 

“Well, I'm glad to hear that. Care to enlighten me how you came to that conclusion?“

 

But there was no reply. Sherlock was already crossing the square in long strides, monument forgotten behind him as if it had never caught his interest in the first place. John gave the Japanese tourists his best apologetic smile and hurried after his seemingly insane friend.

 

He could just pick out a few of the words Sherlock was muttering to himself.

 

“I am brilliant. No, _he_ is. _We_ are. _Are_ we? This is going to be so much fun.“


	2. Adagio con espressione

**Title:** A Very Cold Case

 **Pairing:** (eventual) John/Sherlock

 **Rating:** PG

 **Spoilers:** Vaguely for series 1 & two tiny references to book!canon in this chapter

 **Warnings:** None for this chapter

**Summary:** _Violin music, 19_ _ th_ _-century poets, and a string of puzzles, presented to Sherlock by an enigmatic client (or adversary?), who prefers to stay in the shadows_

 

**2\. Chapter: Adagio con espressione**

 

“Listen, Sherlock. I'm starving. And I think I can't feel my hands anymore.“

 

Sherlock suddenly stopped in his tracks, a fine frown forming on his perfect marble forehead. He looked as if he had just realised that they were running around outdoors in what was probably still a mild winter for Russian standards but what would have been considered a stage-three natural disaster in London.

 

There was a sincerely concerned expression on his face as he peered down on John from his impressive height.

 

And then he suddenly reached for John's right hand, taking it between both of his, causing violent shudders to surge through John's body. Although whether that was due to the warmth of these hands or due to Sherlock's unexpected behaviour, John couldn't have said. (And how was it that the man had such warm hands when he wasn't even wearing his gloves?)

 

“We really ought to buy you a pair of gloves,“ Sherlock said softly, deep voice causing the skin of their connected hands to hum gently. There was something in that voice. Some dark tremor, reminding John of the way Sherlock sometimes played his violin with a subtle _vibrato_.

 

Then Sherlock seemed to suddenly realise that he was supposed to be the aloof genius here, and John felt his hand being released.

 

“It's not far, but …“ Sherlock cleared his throat. “… we could take the Tube, I suppose.“

 

“The Tube?“ John said, releasing a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding for a minute now. “Sherlock, you never take the Tube. You take taxis. That's what you do.“

 

“ _Here_ , we take the Tube,“ Sherlock replied, a trace of an enigmatic smile appearing on his face. “In fact, there is a Metro station over there.“ He made an elegant gesture with one slender hand, and they set off towards the Metro entrance.

 

Maybe John hadn't expected anything at all, or maybe he had imagined it to be an ordinary, dirty old Tube station. What he saw, in any case, was …

 

“Extraordinary,“ he breathed. “This looks like an underground palace. Sherlock, have you seen the chandeliers?“

 

There was a hint of a smile in the other man's eyes, clearly saying, _Told you so._ What he said, however, was, “Honestly, John. You are so easily impressed.“

 

The train was warm; under any other circumstance, John would have called it overheated, but now he enjoyed feeling his limbs come alive with a tingling sensation.

 

Despite the carriage being overcrowded, they had managed to get seats, and pressed up against Sherlock's side, he could feel the man's warmth through several layers of clothing. It was a nice, peaceful feeling, actually. One that he definitely wouldn't have associated with Sherlock Holmes just a few days ago. Something inside of him wished the ride would never end, and that he could just sit here and relax for hours, pressed up against the other man's shoulder and arm.

 

He cleared his throat. “So, where are we going now?“

 

“I don't want to spoil the surprise.“

 

“But you worked it out, didn't you? The puzzle.“

 

“You were right. Our anonymous friend never wanted us to visit the Pushkin statue. The cab driver was just repeating what he'd been told, but he unintentionally influenced my decision by dropping us off near the monument. Never a good thing, John, to let one's decisions be influenced by proximity.“

 

“O-okay. So, the message wasn't pointing us in the direction of the monument?“

 

“No,“ Sherlock replied curtly, mouth setting in a firm line, indicating that he wouldn't say another word.

 

♫♪♫

 

Following Sherlock's billowing coat out the exit, John squared his shoulders, feeling the biting cold hit him again. It felt like walking into a solid wall.

 

“It's not far,“ Sherlock stated, making it sound like a peace offering.

 

“Sherlock?“

 

“John?“ came the level response.

 

“That building … Over there. I think I've seen it before. In a picture maybe. What is it?“

 

“Actually, that's where we're going. That's the Bolshoi Theatre.“

 

They were walking over to the box office when John suddenly felt Sherlock reach into his pocket unceremoniously to retrieve the envelope full of cash.

 

“You'll love this. I promise,“ Sherlock whispered secretively, eyes sparkling with playful mischief, and whirled around, addressing the woman behind the counter in a firm voice.

 

John was still recovering from the shock of feeling a warm hand creep into his pocket without warning when, to his utter surprise, the woman smiled at them warmly and said in accented English, “You wouldn't happen to be Mr Holmes, would you? I have two tickets in that name.“

 

“Yes. That's … er … us,“ John confirmed, seeing his friend's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline.

 

“I was told you would pick them up by 3pm. Now it's four,“ the woman said in a friendly tone. “Did  you get caught up in traffic? It can be terrible in winter.“

 

“Er … yes, we did. Ahem. Thanks for not selling them,“ John replied nervously, trying to be the social half of their double act.

 

Sherlock, for his part, was openly staring at her now, as if she were an insect under a microscope.

 

“Who told you this?“ he bit out, white-knuckled fingers gripping the counter.

 

“I don't know,“ she shrugged. “People call here all the time …“

 

John had to actually elbow his friend in the ribs to remind him to behave, which in Sherlock's case meant giving the woman one of his trademark fake smiles.

 

“Performances start at 8pm, gentlemen. So, you can take a stroll around the city in the meantime if you want.“

 

They paid for their tickets and descended the steps to the square in front of the theatre.

 

“I … don't understand,“ John admitted, falling into step with his friend.

 

“I hadn't foreseen that there would be tickets, waiting at the box office. But apart from that …“

 

“Sherlock, _where_ exactly are we going this evening? And what has that got to do with the message?“

 

“Well, you have the tickets. Just read what's printed on them.“

 

“Yes, well, I _would_ , except I still don't read Russian,“ John pointed out, feeling annoyance bubble up inside him again.

 

“We're going to see _Eugene Onegin_!“ Sherlock exclaimed, sounding like a magician performing a rabbit trick.

 

John looked over to him in confusion. “That's a symphony, isn't it?“

 

“Oh, God, John! It's an opera! You can be such a Neanderthal sometimes. All you do is listen to your Beatniks and– “

 

“Beatles.“

 

“Same bloody thing.“

 

“Neanderthal, my arse,“ John muttered. “Besides, I still don't see how– “

 

“Child's play. Our client obviously knows me very well. _Eugene Onegin_ is an opera by Tchaikovsky.“

 

“Okay. _And?_ “

 

“Sometimes you can be really obtuse, John. You know that?“

 

“You've told me that a few times, yes. Though you _did_ call me a genius earlier, remember?“

 

“Because you said the right thing at the right moment. You gave me the right idea, John. Tchaikovsky's _Eugene Onegin_ is based on a novel of the same title written by …“

 

Sherlock made a dramatic pause, spreading his hands like a pompous conductor waiting for the orchestra to follow his lead.

 

“Pushkin?“ John asked incredulously, feeling the wheels in his head turn.

 

“Oh, God, yes! _Finally!_ “ Sherlock exclaimed exasperatedly. “An invitation that was a puzzle in itself. And we nearly blew the whole thing. Lunch?“

 

♫♪♫

 

They ended up in a small café, where Sherlock went ahead and ordered for John, without even bothering to ask him what he wanted to eat.

 

But John really couldn't have cared less, as his order turned out to be a steaming plate of heavenly goodness drowning in sour cream.

 

He gave an appreciative growl, his stomach joining in in unison, and tucked into the _pelmeni_ (as Sherlock had called them), furiously working on his plate as if he were a virtuoso taming a recalcitrant instrument, yet remaining a soloist throughout the whole piece, seeing as Sherlock refused to provide the accompaniment.

 

The man had one of those faintly amused expressions on his face that he sometimes displayed while watching John inhale his food, and John realised that he should probably say something, anything, unless he wanted his friend to speak first. Because _that_ just never ended well. He would be treated to one of those genuinely Sherlockian stories about severed body parts and funny deaths, thus ending up losing his appetite altogether.

 

“So, that poet chap … er … Pushkin, who exactly was he?“

 

The amusement on his friend's face grew even more pronounced. “Oh, only the greatest Russian poet ever. But well, apparently, _I am_ the 'spectacularly ignorant' one here.“

 

John opened his mouth to respond, but Sherlock spoke again before he got the chance.

 

“He died an odd death, Pushkin.“

 

 _Great! Here we go,_ John groaned inwardly. “Did he lose any body parts in the process? Because if that's the case, I'm not listening,“ he pointed out, chewing furiously on his _pelmeni_ for emphasis.

 

“I'm not sure about that,“ the amused, smooth baritone replied. “But he did die in a duel.“

 

“Intriguing,“ John huffed. “What was the duel about? Did he call his friend a Neanderthal?“

 

Strangely enough, Sherlock chose to ignore this jibe, turning away and looking out the window pensively. “A woman,“ he said softly. “He died duelling over a woman.“

 

“And you find that odd? Just because love was part of the equation? Because he died for the woman he loved?“

 

Sherlock seemed to narrow his eyes for a second, shaking his head slightly, black curls spilling over his forehead and making him look like St Sebastian in an old Renaissance painting John had once seen in a museum. There was a slight tension around his finely shaped mouth and a thoughtful expression in his slate grey eyes, that John couldn't decipher.

 

“Never mind,“ he finally said with a throw-away gesture of his slender hand.

 

“So, our … client,“ John asked, “or adversary … or whoever he is, he shares your taste in obscure classical music and fustian poetry? And he wants us to go to the opera? Isn't that a bit _too_ James Bond?“

 

“If I were James Bond, I'd have a big gun,“ Sherlock said, the corners of his mouth curling up into a barely detectable smile.

 

“And a Bond girl,“ John pointed out.

 

“Oh, well, _that_ …“

 

♫♪♫

 

They still had enough time to walk over to the hotel the cab driver had mentioned earlier and change their clothes. Actually, John was very happy to discover that the man hadn't nicked their luggage and that he still _had_ something to change into.

 

It was already dark when they were crossing Theatre Square again. The temperature had risen to a balmy 0 °C, which meant that it was still freezing; only now John didn't feel as if he were about to die any second anymore.

 

Clouds were quickly gathering in the night sky, and it had begun to snow, thick, white flakes gently dancing around them in the dark, making everything look unreal, magical and even warmer somehow. Warmer at least than the blinding sunlight during the day.

 

John risked a glance over at Sherlock, who was walking silently beside him.

 

However unprepared he himself had come here, his friend seemed to have known exactly what he was getting himself into, weatherwise at least. His long, dark coat now had an elegant fur collar attached to it, and his black leather gloves were firmly in place.

 

Actually, he looked breathtakingly handsome in the pale light of the street lamps, his noble features as white as the freshly fallen snow.

 

John noticed that the fur collar had a silky shine to it, its colour the same raven black as Sherlock's hair, making the paleness of his skin stand out even more.

 

White snowflakes were settling gently in those dark curls, and John had to forcibly stop himself from catching one of the delicate crystals that was about to land on Sherlock's cheek.

 

There was something mysterious about this tall, dark, handsome man beside him, something hypnotic about those coal-black lashes that cast dark shadows over translucent eyes and high cheekbones, something dashing about the way his svelte figure moved with gentlemanly grace.

 

In short, the man looked like someone out of a Pushkin novel himself, a bit otherworldly, a hero from a long-past era, a 19th-century dandy going to a duel to …

 

“Finally, I can impress you with something,“ Sherlock said, pulling John out of his reverie.

 

Despite the cold, John could feel sweat break out across his forehead. Had he been discovered staring?

 

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Sherlock nod in the direction of the theatre, and with a deep sigh of relief, John realised what the man was talking about.

 

“With something besides crappy Chinese restaurants, I mean,“ Sherlock added with an almost unnoticeable twinkle in his eyes.

 

John wanted to say, _You don't have to take me to an opera house for that. You impress me all the time._ Instead, he growled, “Up until now, this trip has been _quite_ impressive.“

 

Then he realised that something seemed wrong about that too. Shouldn't he be going out of his way to impress Sarah? And shouldn't Sherlock be impressing the police? Sherlock impressing him shouldn't be part of the equation, should it?

 

But for some reason, he didn't want to bring that up either. It was only a few weeks ago that Sarah had broken up with him, after all. He still got angry with her whenever he remembered that pitiful look she had given him while saying, “You know … the person who's constantly at the centre of your attention, the one you'd do everything for, the one you're willing to die for, that's the person you should be with.“ “Yeah, well, except … I'm not gay, Sarah,“ he had replied. And her expression had somehow turned even more pitiful at that. Sherlock hadn't exactly turned out to be the compassionate friend John had needed after the break up either, yawning and grunting something about her not being worth John's time, anyway. But then, what had John expected?

 

He breathed in a snowflake, feeling it melt on his tongue, and decided to let the subject drop. And so they strolled on in silence, towards the brightly lit theatre entrance, the snow swirling around them in the darkness like a silent overture to their evening.

 

♫♪♫

 

On the inside, the Bolshoi looked like something out of a lush fever dream, all sparkling gold and red velvet, making John feel as if he had stepped into a costume drama. He half-expected to hear the rustle of a fan or a lady in a gold-embroidered crinoline dress to come round the corner of the foyer.

 

Once they had taken their seats in the gilded auditorium, John looked down himself, cringing inwardly at the sight of his faded jeans and worn trainers. Well, how was he supposed to know they would go to an opera? He had packed comfy jumpers and old, tattered t-shirts, not …

 

John looked over at Sherlock. How the hell had the man managed to turn up dressed in black tie?

 

There was something in the relaxed pose of his friend that made him look as if wearing formal evening attire were the most ordinary thing in the world. As if the silk lapels of his dinner jacket, the blackness of which made the marble column of his throat stand out even more, weren't even worth mentioning. As if the way he was elegantly reclining in his seat, long-fingered hands hanging limply from his starched shirt cuffs, black locks framing his noble face, didn't make him look like a Byronic hero in an oil painting by some 19th-century master. As if it were an entirely mundane experience to sit here in a seat at the Bolshoi, gazing into the distance with one's pale grey eyes shadowed by long dark lashes, lips slightly parted, occupying one's friend's mind and …

 

John gulped and averted his eyes quickly.

 

Sherlock looked relaxed, but that didn't mean he was inattentive, and the last thing John needed right now was a discussion about why he was staring at his friend in awestruck silence.

 

But if Sherlock had noticed anything, he didn't mention it, which only showed how preoccupied he was with their current case, seeing as he usually never let an opportunity slip to taunt anyone. Even in his relaxed, cat-like pose, he didn't seem to be just resting; his eyes were quickly scanning the crowd, obviously looking for their client (adversary? criminal du jour?) to reveal himself.

 

John even thought he heard him mutter, “He must be here somewhere,“ at one point.

 

But _Eugene Onegin_ began without anything out of the ordinary happening.

 

It was worth an opera – it was worth many boring hours of opera – to see Sherlock's self-restraint silently melt away in the darkness of the auditorium, to see his eyes turn languid and the colour of liquid smoke, to see the expression of perfect happiness on his gently smiling face, his sensual fingers waving in time to the music.

 

John even thought he saw his friend silently mouth along to the lyrics of an intricate Russian aria at one point. (And how was it that this mouth looked as if it had been drawn by some sultry love goddess whose sitter had undoubtedly been Ganymede himself?) Sherlock's lips were full, soft and wistfully parted, Cupid's bow pronounced and probably making every girl on the planet viciously envious. There was a longing smile in the corner of his mouth, a trace of something that spoke of desire and pain and something unnameable that …

 

John sat up a bit straighter, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock's chiselled profile for the tenth time already.

 

He was a bit bored, and that was probably the reason for his staring, he mused. But then, the opera was in Russian, of which he didn't understand a word, and he had already lost track of all the Tatyanas and Olgas on stage. In addition, the champagne he and Sherlock had drunk earlier in the foyer had gone straight to his head and was undoubtedly the cause for the polyphony in there.

 

Their mysterious client still hadn't revealed himself, and John was beginning to doubt it would ever happen.

 

After all, it was possible that this was the work of some idiot savant, who shared with his friend the passion for classical music and obscure poetry, someone who – out of sheer idiocy – had paid for their flight and accommodation, a nutcase, who wouldn't even turn up.

 

John, tried to stifle a yawn, forcing himself not to look at Sherlock again.

 

Instead, he opened the programme on his knee and tried to make out the lines in the dim light. Shouldn't there be an intermission sometime soon?

 

He had already discovered that most of the booklet was in Russian and thus completely useless to him, but Sherlock didn't seem to need it, as he apparently knew the lyrics by heart, and there was a short plot summary in English on one of the last pages, that John had started reading earlier in the foyer.

 

He had only got as far as the two main protagonists duelling over a woman, however, when he just had had to ask Sherlock, “Is this some sort of life-imitating-art thing?“ Sherlock had been busy scanning the crowd in the foyer with narrowed eyes and had just responded with a nonchalant, “Hm?“

 

Now John was flipping through the booklet again, trying to find the right page in the dim light of the auditorium, carefully avoiding to make any rustling noise so as not to disturb the people around him.

 

And that was when it happened.

 

He turned the next page, and suddenly he was staring into a face.

 

It was a photograph of a young man.

 

Unlike the pictures of the soloists, it wasn't actually printed onto the paper. No, this photograph had been tucked loosely in between the pages and looked as if it had nothing to do with the programme at all.

 

John squinted in the darkness, picking up the booklet and bringing it closer to his eyes. A few of the Russian verses on that particular page had been meticulously underlined with a pen. Apparently, someone had taken one of the programmes and had highlighted a few sentences in it, using the photograph as a bookmark. And somehow, that very booklet had then ended up being theirs. Somehow … or maybe …

 

“Psst, Sherlock.“

 

“Hm?“ came the distracted response.

 

“I have to show you something,“ John breathed.

 

“I told you I don't need the libretto. Can't you keep quiet? You are disturbing the– “

 

“Look!“ John whispered excitedly, shoving the booklet and the photograph into Sherlock's hands, whose frown quickly turned into an expression of open-mouthed astonishment.

 

“Oh. _Oh!_ “ he exclaimed loudly, causing angry whispers to break out behind them. “John, we have to go,“ he ordered, leaping to his feet.

 

The whispers in the auditorium grew louder and more difficult to ignore. In the back of his mind, John realised that, right now, he was actually quite glad to not understand any Russian.

 

“Sit down, Sherlock,“ he hissed.

 

“We have to go. We came here to get a message. We got it,“ Sherlock insisted, his deep, sonorous voice carrying to the farthest balcony above them.

 

There were a few shouts from the people behind them now, and John simply didn't know what to do anymore. He got to his feet as well, flashing a vaguely apologetic smile at the people in the back rows and hurried after his friend, knocking over handbags, bumping into knees and apologising over and over again.

 

He caught up with his insane friend in the foyer.

 

“You are impossible, you know that? You just made me walk out of theatre– “

 

“You found it boring, anyway. Don't complain.“

 

“We're probably lucky they didn't kick us out on our arses,“ John snapped, running alongside the detective, their footsteps echoing off the marble walls of the empty foyer.

 

“We've got what we came here for. This is our second puzzle.“

 

“What? That picture?“ John asked, stopping in his tracks to catch his breath. In the distance, he could still faintly hear the orchestra playing, the music echoing down the stairs.

 

Sherlock stopped as well. “The picture too. But mainly the highlighted lines in the booklet.“

 

“What do you make of them, then?“

 

“That's why I need to get out of here. Don't you understand?“ Sherlock growled impatiently, hands flailing wildly in the air. “I need to _think_.“

 

“Don't you think it's all a bit odd, though? I mean, with Moriarty it was all about dead bodies and unsolved crimes. This new fanof yours hasn't threatened us in any way yet. He isn't blowing anyone up, and his puzzles don't even seem to have anything to do with crime.“

 

Sherlock's sharply angled face suddenly twisted in a sneer. “ _Really_ , John? And it took you _how_ long to work that out?“ he asked sarcastically.

 

“Well, I'm not the world's first and only consulting detective,“ John shrugged. “Why do you think he's bothering with the puzzles, then? If they aren't about solving crime.“

 

Sherlock's eyes seemed to narrow for a second as if he were still formulating his new theory. “I think …“ he replied slowly, “… I think they are tests. He's testing me. Testing if I'm worthy of something.“


	3. Leggiero

**Title:** A Very Cold Case

 **Pairing:** (eventual) John/Sherlock

 **Rating:** PG

 **Spoilers:** Vaguely for series 1

 **Warnings:** None for this chapter

 **Summary:** _Violin music, 19_ _ th_ _-century poets, and a string of puzzles, presented to Sherlock by an enigmatic client (or adversary?), who prefers to stay in the shadows_

 

**3\. Chapter: Leggiero**

 

There was still the question of the bed, John realised, entering their hotel room. They hadn't addressed it earlier when they'd come here to change, but now the matter had suddenly become a more pressing one, at least in _his_ mind.

 

Apparently, whoever had brought them here didn't know as much about them as Sherlock had assumed, or they would have known better than to put them both in the same room, let alone the same bed.

 

If even mysterious strangers thought they were a couple, how was John supposed to convince his own sister that, no, they weren't doing it, and that, by the way, he wasn't even gay?

 

Sherlock had stormed into the room with a focused look on his face, occupying the table with one swift movement of his lean arm, setting the programme in front of himself. The picture of the young man was now propped against his German book.

 

John could hear him mutter the same Russian lines from the booklet over and over again. Something that seemed to include a lot of “Tatyana … Tatyana …“ apparently.

 

God, why was it so cold in this room? Had the hotel already switched off the heating for the evening?

 

John walked over to the radiator. Cold, of course! And no thermostat or switch. Apparently, the thing had been turned off centrally.

 

“Great, just great!“ he groaned. “We're stuck in the middle of Siberia. And they don't even consider leaving the heating on during the night.“

 

Sherlock didn't even react to the blatant geographical mistake; he was staring at the highlighted stanza in the booklet. “… Act III … But why? … The arioso … So, Onegin finally realises he's fallen in love … But why is that _important_? It doesn't make any sense …“

 

“I think I'll go down to the front desk and ask them to turn the heating back on.“

 

“… connection … connection … connection …“

 

“Sherlock, are you listening?“

 

“…   _in the depths of a_ … er … _distant countryside_ … _I must be dreaming_ …“ John could hear Sherlock translate the paragraph quietly to himself.

 

“Forget it. I'm off.“

 

♫♪♫

 

The receptionist turned out to be a friendly-looking old man, who didn't speak a word of English, which frustrated John to no end. Why hire somebody to work for a hotel if they didn't know at least a few phrases in a foreign language? Well, maybe the bloke was just the stand-in night porter or something.

 

“The. Heating,“ John repeated slowly. “Er … heating? Heating-ski? Heating-skovich? No?“

 

The man just smiled and shrugged his shoulders apologetically.

 

“I. Am. Cold,“ John tried again, crossing his arms in front of his chest and rubbing his upper arms with his hands for emphasis. “Could. You. _Turn on._ The heating. Please.“ He raised his hand, rotating it at the wrist, trying to mime turning an imaginary regulator knob.

 

Suddenly, the other man's eyes lit up in understanding, and he exclaimed something in Russian.

 

Apparently, he had understood John's pathetic attempt at sign language.

 

John settled for a desperate, “Da, da,“ as a response, a feeling of relief flooding through him, and the receptionist jumped to his feet happily, disappearing into a back room.

 

John thought he could hear his own loud exhale echo in the empty hotel lobby. It looked as if he were finally getting somewhere.

 

When the receptionist returned, however, John had to do a double-take: the man was carrying a vodka bottle and two glasses. Laughing and mimicking the hand gesture John had just made, the man said something in Russian again.

 

The gesture really looked as if he were turning a knob, but even more as if he were miming pouring a drink, John suddenly realised.

 

 _Harry always said I was rubbish at miming,_ he thought bitterly.

 

Somehow, it seemed too impolite to decline the friendly offer, however. The kind-hearted man seemed honestly happy to have found somebody to share his vodka with.

 

 _At least it'll warm me up,_ John mused.

 

Two (or maybe three?) vodka shots later, he returned to the hotel room.

 

Sherlock was sitting at the table in the exact same position he had left him in. That had to be expected; the man never moved much when he was trying to concentrate.

 

Maybe it was the alcohol speaking, but somehow it struck John how very, very young Sherlock looked, sitting there, ruffling his hair like a schoolboy doing a maths test.

 

“Was it a good brand at least? Or just some _samogon_?“ Sherlock asked, without looking up.

 

“What?“

 

“The vodka. You reek of it.“

 

Okay, maybe he had had more than three shots. So what?

 

“What's _samogon_?“ John asked, flopping onto the bed heavily.

 

“The stuff that can make you blind,“ Sherlock replied dismissively. “But on second thought, maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing. At least you wouldn't have to bear the sight of your ugly flatmate anymore.“He sounded completely serious, as if this thought were actually worth consideration.

 

John opened his mouth to protest vehemently … and closed it again.

 

There was a flurry of thoughts in his mind, buzzing through his head in a dissonant, vodka-induced haze, all of them fuzzy around the edges, complicated, yet somehow deeply true and important. The brilliantly clear mind of a consulting detective would probably reject them as illogical and irrational. And defending oneself by saying that they just _felt_ right was never a good idea with Sherlock, which was why John didn't say:

 

_You aren't ugly! Maybe you are the blind one here. I, for my part, was staring at the ridiculously attractive man at my side all evening. A man of almost otherworldly beauty, who doesn't even realise he could have five girlfriends hanging around his neck any time he wanted._

 

But then, bringing up the subject of girlfriends would probably only earn him a derisive sneer from his friend, and John was still wondering if he shouldn't be saying 'boyfriends' instead, anyway. It wasn't as if they had ever settled that question.

 

And then, there just wasn't a way in which you could utter the words 'otherworldly beauty' without it sounding gay somehow, John thought.

 

The fact that he would be saying this to Sherlock, instead of to Sarah, seemed a bit gay for some reason too. Even though his alcohol-fogged brain couldn't work out why that was at the moment.

 

 _Vodka on champagne_ … _makes you go insane,_ the inner voice of  his staunchly heterosexual self tried to reassure him.

 

“You can take the bed if you want,“ Sherlock's rich baritone suddenly resounded in the room. “I don't intend to sleep.“

 

Only a few minutes later, John was already shivering under the duvet, falling asleep to Sherlock's muttered half-thoughts and the faint rustle of paper.

 

“There has to be something … connection, connection, connection … some hint … some clue … maybe a pun … or maybe a rhyme with one of the words here … something …“

 

♫♪♫

 

The first part of the night flew by in a frenzied, alcohol-induced blur.  

 

Once or twice, John thought he heard the syncopated rhythm of his own chattering teeth penetrate his dream, and his feet felt as if they had decided that this world was in desperate need of new glaciers, anyway.

 

Then suddenly, he felt something heavy being put on top of the duvet, and it got warmer almost instantly.

 

He smiled involuntarily in his sleep. Probably a spare blanket or something … Only, why did it smell of Sherlock so much? … Then he drifted into a deep, dreamless slumber.

 

He woke up to someone grabbing his arm.

 

“Wha– ?“

 

At some point during the night, he had felt a gush of cold air hit his face, as if someone had opened a window. At least the fact that the room faintly smelled of cheap Russian cigarettes now provided an explanation for that.

 

Sherlock himself smelled of shampoo and was wearing fresh clothes.

 

“Get up. We have to go.“

 

“What? Why?“ John asked blearily, trying to crawl back under the covers. Was that Sherlock's coat on top of the duvet?

 

“Come on, John. Get your hung-over head off the pillow.“

 

“You couldn't have let me sleep in, I suppose?“

 

“I did. It's half nine.“

 

“Which means it's 6:30, London time. Sherlock, I'm jet-lagged.“

 

“Jetlag is just a psychosomatic condi– “

 

“ _Of course_ it is!“ John exploded. “That is because, unless you're Doctor Who in his TARDIS, _your psyche_ needs time to adjust to _the new time_ _zone!_ “

 

“Who?“

 

“Yes, Who! Doctor Who! God, you don't even kno– “

 

“So, now that you're awake enough to be angry, how about getting up?“

 

♫♪♫

 

“You could at least tell me where we're going.“

 

Sherlock's eyes were sparkling with excitement, and there was a tension in his shoulders that had nothing to do with the cold or the freshly fallen snow outside their hotel. Like a dog on the scent, he seemed to be following a trail only visible to him.

 

Something had occurred to him during the night; that much was obvious, and John couldn't help himself, wondering if his friend had actually been able to read something into the Romantic verses Pushkin had written almost two hundred years ago. There was a look of half-nervous, half-excited apprehension on Sherlock's face as they strolled down the street.

 

“Are you listening, Sherlock? I asked you where we're going. _And:_ I'm freezing. _And:_ hungry!“

 

“Oh, stop whining. You sound like my brother. I'm about to show you something spectacular.“

 

“Some spectacularly scrambled eggs would be nice right now.“

 

♫♪♫

 

They ended up in a bright, spacious shop in the city centre.

 

“Seriously, Sherlock? A shop full of musical instruments? That's why you dragged me out of bed? Don't you have a violin already?“ Sometimes John felt as if he were dealing with a hyperactive child.

 

“We're not here for a violin.“

 

“Well, God help me. If you brought me here to pick out a new bow, I'll– “

 

“Not that either. Instruments aren't the only things they carry.“

 

Sherlock whirled around abruptly and addressed the woman behind the counter in rapid, fluent  Russian. The shop assistant nodded in response and walked over to an impressive floor-to-ceiling wall of shelves.

 

From the corner of his eyes, John could see Sherlock's long, strong fingers drumming nervously against the wooden counter top.

 

John tore his eyes away quickly, trying to focus on a shiny trumpet hanging on the wall.

 

When the woman returned, she set something on the counter. It was a leather-bound book of …

 

“Sheet music, John,“ Sherlock exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. “Now, let's take a look at our friend _Yevgeny_.“

 

“Yevgeny?“

 

“ _Onegin_. Don't play stupid. It doesn't become you.“

 

Sherlock started flipping through the pages at lightning speed, muttering to himself, “Act III … Act III … Act III … Ah! Here we go,“ he whispered, brows furrowed in fierce concentration, long index finger tracing something on the page. He was muttering the same few Russian sentences John had heard him repeat over and over again throughout the night.

 

John could even pinpoint the exact moment when it happened: the widening of those grey eyes, the sudden intake of breath … His friend looked up from the score, staring straight out the window, seemingly lost in thought for a moment.

 

“Oh … _Oh!_ This … is gorgeous. This is brilliant!“

 

“What is?“

 

“This is. The puzzle. Oh, it's all so ridiculously simple once you know what it means.“

 

“Well, you'll have to explain that because I don't see– “

 

“The stanza, John. The lines highlighted in the libretto.“

 

“Yes?“

 

“We've been working under a false assumption again.“

 

“And what assumption would that be?“

 

“That the clue is in the text, John. It isn't.“

 

“It isn't?“

 

“No. Yesterday, we weren't supposed to look at the Pushkin statue; we were supposed to go to an opera. The same logic applies here: it's not about Pushkin's verses. It's about Tchaikovsky's score. I only worked that out this morning.“

 

“And that's why you need the sheet music?“

 

“Yes. Look!“

 

John leaned over the page, wondering what on earth Sherlock had seen in those few black notes, and how this could possibly be related to what they were doing here in Moscow.

 

“See this part here, John? Onegin's Arioso? Now, I thought it would all be about the lines, but it isn't. Look.“

 

“Er …“

 

“The whole arioso is written in B-flat major. Except for … this passage here,“ Sherlock explained, tapping the page with his long finger.

 

“O-okay.“

 

“Don't you see? This is the exact passage that goes with the verses underlined in our booklet. And it is written in a _different_ key, John. In the relative minor key of B-flat major. And that _iiiiiis_?“

 

“God, Sherlock, it's been years since I last played the clarinet. And music theory was never my strong– “

 

“That _iiiiiis_?“ Sherlock repeated obnoxiously, looking very much like a teacher scolding a lazy  pupil.

 

John bent down over the book again, squinting at the spot where Sherlock's finger was tapping the page impatiently.

 

“G minor?“ he mumbled uncertainly.

 

“Excellent!“

 

“Okay. But I still don't see how this is relevant to– “

 

“Oh, you see, you just don't observe.“

 

“No, clearly, I don't,“ John huffed, leaning back against the counter. “So, the underlined verses are sung in G minor. How is that important?“

 

Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds as if he had just said something incredibly stupid.

 

“Well, sorry, Sherlock, not all of us have a brain your size.“

 

“That much is obvious. G minor, John! G! Just look at the excess of G, G, G in this part.“

 

“You will find that if you were to explain your conclusions step by step instead of jumping from step one to step five, skipping everything in between, us mere mortals would have a chance to follow you.“

 

Sherlock took a deep breath as if to brace himself, “John, this is a Russian case,“ he said slowly, emphasizing each word, as if he were talking to a particularly slow-witted child. “We are in Russia. People in Russia speak Russian. The term 'people' includes a species called 'musicians'.“

 

“Yes. _And?_ “

 

At that, Sherlock suddenly slapped his own forehead, producing a loud smacking sound. “Hopeless … hopeless …“ he muttered. “You know what? I'll ask the lady for help.“

 

He waved at the poor shop assistant with his slender hand and asked her something in Russian. The expression on the woman's face shifted from incredulity to bemusement. But then she just shrugged her shoulders and complied, opening her mouth and …

 

“Doremifasolasido,“ she sang quietly, her voice quavering. Then she closed her mouth again and gave them an expectant look.

 

“Russians name the notes of the scale differently, John,“ Sherlock explained, not even caring to thank the woman. “In Russia, the note we call 'G' is called …“ He actually counted the notes off on his fingers, just to show John how stupid a pupil he was, “… do … re … mi … fa … sol! Sol, John. 'Sol' is what Russians call it.“

 

“That's great, Sherlock. But I still don't see– “

 

“Sol! It's not only the fifth note of the scale. Coincidentally, it's also a word.“

 

“Oh.“ John felt like he was slowly beginning to see something that Sherlock had probably seen half an hour ago already. “What does it mean?“

 

“Salt.“

 

“O-okay. And how is that relevant?“

 

Sherlock suddenly grabbed his arm, forcefully spinning him around to face the shop window. “Tell me what you see on the opposite side of the street, John.“

 

“Er … another shop. Old one, actually. Ancient. The window is dusty.“

 

“Good. What else?“

 

John squinted to take in every detail. There was a big sign above the shop door.

   

    Соль и Специи

 

“There is a sign above the door … that I can't read; it's in Russian. It's … a very old sign, though. Rusty and dirty. It has probably been there for at least half a century. The first word stands out more than the other two. That's because some of the paint is coming off in places … I think that's all.“

 

“ _Very_ good.“

 

“Care to enlighten me?“

 

Sherlock's grip on John's arm tightened.

 

“This music shop here is the only one of its kind in the vicinity of our hotel,“ he whispered, voice suddenly rough with excitement. “I've checked it on the internet. Our client must have known that this is the only place where I could have gone to take a look at the score of _Eugene Onegin._ And the first thing I'd lay my eyes on, after leaving this place, would undoubtedly be the shop on the opposite side of the street. Its sign, in particular! And it's the first word on that sign that would catch my eye.“

 

“What does the sign say?“ John breathed, his heart hammering away in his chest.

 

“It's a shop that sells salt and spices. Salt, John. The first word on that sign is 'salt'. Sol. Соль.“

 

John looked up into a pair of excited grey eyes, noticing that there was something breathless about the expression on Sherlock's face, something vulnerable and young. He didn't look like a teacher anymore, more like a student nervously awaiting the verdict of his professor.

 

“This is amazing, Sherlock!“ John blurted out. “Extraordinary! And you got all that from a few highlighted lines in a programme booklet? Incredible! The whole puzzle was just a guidepost pointing us in the direction of that shop over there? Brilliant! You are brilliant!“

 

It was interesting to see that the great detective didn't look smug, or even pleased. Usually, he did. With Lestrade, with Donovan, with Anderson and with everyone else who ended up on the wrong end of his deductive powers. Not with John, though. Not now.

 

Sherlock looked … happy? Yes, 'happy' just about covered it, John realised in astonishment. Genuinely happy about the compliment. And a bit nervous, looking down at John in that strange, shy way he never displayed with anyone else.

 

“Really? You think so?“

 

“Yes, Sherlock. Of course,“ John replied, smile threatening to split his face.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and cast a furtive glance at the bewildered shop assistant. “We'd better go before she realises that we don't intend to buy anything,“ he whispered.


	4. Andante

**Title:** A Very Cold Case

 **Pairing:** (eventual) John/Sherlock

 **Rating:** PG

 **Spoilers:** Vaguely for series 1

 **Warnings:** None for this chapter

 **Summary:** _Violin music, 19_ _ th_ _-century poets, and a string of puzzles, presented to Sherlock by an enigmatic client (or adversary?), who prefers to stay in the shadows_

 

**4\. Chapter: Andante**

 

“Seriously? We're going to go into that spice shop?“

 

“Yes, I told you. We've solved the second puzzle, and it's pointing us in the direction of this shop. That's where the third puzzle is going to be.“

 

“So, are we playing _'_ Hare and Hounds' here? Following a paper chase from one mark to the next … a trail of puzzles?“

 

But Sherlock didn't respond; he was already yanking open the creaking door of the spice shop, taking with him a few swirling flakes of snow as he stepped inside, coat billowing out behind him.

 

The shop looked even more ancient on the inside, John thought. It didn't really seem to fit in with its neighbourhood of expensive fashion boutiques and upmarket jewellery shops, and yet here it was, braving the storms of time.

 

It's walls were lined with old wooden shelves covered with ornate tin boxes full of exotic spices and aromatic herbs. The shop owner himself looked equally ancient, deep frown lines on his forehead disappearing into a pair of bushy white eyebrows.

 

Strangely enough, the old man seemed to realise immediately that they were foreigners, greeting them with a gruff English, “Hello.“

 

“Hello, I'd … like to buy some salt, please,“ Sherlock said with a tight smile, and John thought he sounded as if he were uttering some secret code word.

 

The shop owner didn't even seem surprised; he nodded and replied, “Mr Holmes? Doctor Watson?“

 

John felt his head shoot up instantly _._ “That's us,“ he breathed, still not believing what was unfurling in front of his eyes.

 

“I was told you would turn up at some point,“ the old man announced in slightly accented English.

 

“By who?“ Sherlock demanded.

 

“That's neither here nor there, Mr Holmes. What matters, though, is the fact that you've made it this far, and that I am to give you your next puzzle.“

 

“And you won't tell me who's behind all this?“

 

“Do you really think I know that?“

 

“Well, someone must have paid you to do this.“

 

The shop owner considered this for a second, running his hand over his white beard. “There is something I'd like to tell you before I give you your next puzzle,“ he said, suddenly lowering his voice.

 

“Yes?“

 

“Go home!“

 

“Excuse me?“

 

“Go back to London and forget about this whole thing,“ the old man bit out.

 

“Why would I do that?“

 

“Up until now, it's all just been a game for you. But keep in mind that the FSB can get very angry when people meddle in their affairs.“

 

“Sorry … er … what's the FSB?“ John heard himself stutter.

 

“Russian secret service, John. Renamed themselves from 'KGB' to 'FSB' after the end of the Cold War.“

 

“Oh! Okay,“ John replied, feeling the back of his neck prickle in a most unpleasant way.

 

“So, you are saying the FSB are behind this?“ Sherlock asked, lips firmly pressed together in a thin line.

 

“I didn't say they were. I simply said that they didn't like people who stick their noses where they don't belong.“

 

“But how do you even know that the FSB are involved in this?“ Sherlock continued his questioning.

 

“I don't. I just … have a hunch.“

 

“People don't just have hunches. There is always something. A reason. A sign. Some evidence,“ Sherlock insisted.

 

The old man looked at him quizzically, white eyebrows moving up and down in a funny Santa Claus kind of way.

 

“It's obvious you're English,“ he chuckled finally.

 

“What do you mean?“

 

“You're not from here. You don't know how we tick,“ the old man shrugged.

 

“Will you tell me who from the FSB contacted you?“ Sherlock bit out between gritted teeth.

 

“No one. I told you.“

 

There was a short silence, and John looked back and forth between the two men in confusion.

 

At last, the shop owner cleared his throat. “I think it's time for your puzzle now. You are apparently not willing to leave Russia; so I have no other choice than to pass on the message, and then you are free to go.“

 

“What is it?“

 

“Just one word: 'Lermontov'.“

 

“That's all? Just 'Lermontov' and nothing else?“

 

The old man nodded.

 

Sherlock tried to get something out of him for another ten minutes, but the man wasn't very forthcoming, and in the end they had to give up.

 

They were already leaving, and Sherlock had just pushed the door open, when the shop owner suddenly called out after them, “Go back to London, Mr Holmes! If not for your own life's sake, then at least to protect the life of your friend.“

 

To his astonishment, John saw Sherlock flinch and almost miss the step as he pulled the door shut behind them.

 

“Sherlock?“

 

“Hm?“ came the distracted response.

 

“Who's Lermontov?“

 

“What? … Oh. Russian poet.“

 

“Another one? At least 'Pushkin' sounded familiar. The name 'Lermontov' doesn't really ring a– “

 

“I have to go,“ Sherlock suddenly interrupted him.

 

“What? Where?“

 

But the detective had already turned around and was now hurrying away in long strides.

 

“Wait. Sherlock! Where are you going? What about me?“

 

“Enjoy a few free hours without me,“ Sherlock called out over his shoulder.

 

“But– “

 

“I will find you.“

 

And then the sharp outline of his coat-clad shoulders disappeared around the corner.

 

♫♪♫

 

Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing that Sherlock had let him off the hook for a few hours, John mused. Still, he felt a bit miffed about the prospect of being left in the dark once again. At least he could finally get himself something decent to eat. But first of all, he decided, he would buy himself a warm hat and a pair of gloves.

 

That done, he strolled along the street, finally settling for a small, nice-looking café to satisfy his hunger.

 

Fortunately, it turned out that the waitress knew a little English, and John calmed down considerably, knowing that he wouldn't have to rely on miming again.

 

Once he had finished his late breakfast, he started racking his brain, wondering what to do with his free time.

 

Eventually, he settled on doing what he usually did when on holiday.

 

He had always been a very thorough tourist who went about sightseeing systematically, and so he asked the waitress for directions to Red Square, marvelling at its beauty and impressive size once he'd made his way over there.

 

He managed to get on a guided tour of the Kremlin, excited to see all the palaces and cathedrals, and immediately regretted not having a camera on him. The way the sun reflected off all the golden onion domes was enough to make him completely forget about the snow and the cold.

 

There was something relaxing about doing normal things. Things he had done in the past whenever he had been on holiday with a girlfriend. Long before Afghanistan and Sherlock. Things like sightseeing, buying souvenirs, writing postcards, laughing and generally enjoying life.

 

Granted, there was still the issue of the very cold temperature and the very non-existent girlfriend, but apart from that, this trip was almost beginning to feel like fun.

 

He briefly considered visiting Lenin's mausoleum – as a doctor, he was curious to see the famous mummy – but it was already closed for the rest of the day, and he had to resign himself to another stroll around Red Square.

 

Eventually, he got peckish again and decided to return to the place where he had had breakfast; at least there, he knew what to expect.

 

He had already finished lunch and was in the course of writing a postcard to Mrs Hudson (a nice one with a view of the red Kremlin wall) when somebody plopped down in the seat opposite his.

 

“To whom are you writing?“

 

“God, Sherlock! Do you have to creep up on people like that? It's a postcard to Mrs Hudson. Do you want to drop her a line too?“

 

“Er … let me see … _No!_ “

 

John bent over the postcard and wrote, ' _Sherlock sends his love._ '

 

There was a soft, amused snort, coming from the other side of the table, prompting John to raise his head again. “You read my writing upside down,“ he accused.

 

His friend smirked. “And you've never done that.“

 

“Oh, forget it. How did you manage to find me, anyway? Is even Moscow not big enough to hide from you these days?“

 

“Oh, _please._ That was child's play! I _know_ you. There were two cafés around the corner from that spice shop. Both overcrowded. The third one was smaller, more romantic, less fake-for-tourists. Definitely your style. And it had a sign on the door that read ' _English spoken here_ '.“

 

“Oh. Really?“

 

“Yep. Conclusion: you came here, had breakfast and left again, probably did a bit of sightseeing. (I know your odd sense of duty.) Then – I can pinpoint it almost to the exact minute – you got hungry again. But you wouldn't go to a different place. You _love_ routine and hate change. _And_ you don't speak Russian, which makes it highly improbable that you would be very adventurous in your restaurant choice. Honestly, it wasn't a difficult leap.“

 

“You never cease to amaze me,“ John said, shaking his head.

 

“As I said, child's play,“ Sherlock replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Your eating habits are just terribly predictable. A repetitive pattern of breakfast, lunch, dinner, breakfast, lunch, din– “

 

“As everywhere in the industrialised world. In case you don't know.“

 

“How is Lenin's corpse doing? Haven't seen the old fellow in a while.“

 

“I don't even _want_ to know how your mind jumped from food to Lenin's corpse. And I didn't get to see it. The mausoleum was closed.“

 

“Shame. You've missed out on the best– “

 

“Sherlock, where have you been?“ John interrupted him. “What have you done all day?“

 

“Lermontov, John,“ Sherlock replied, steepling his fingers.

 

“So, you've been sitting around in some library, trying to catch up on all of his poems or what?“

 

Sherlock shook his head, curls falling across his forehead in a silky raven wave. “I was at the British Embassy.“

 

“What? Why?“

 

“I needed to phone Mycroft,“ Sherlock said, scrunching up his nose as if he were talking about something particularly disgusting.

 

“Why didn't you use your phone, then? Your bill is going to be outrageous, anyway, and … Oh … erm …“ John waved for the waitress, who was just passing their table, “Could you bring my friend here the _pelmeni_ ,please?“

 

“What? No! I don't want to eat,“ Sherlock protested.

 

“But you're going to, trust me, even if I have to force-feed you.“

 

“And if I refuse?“ Sherlock muttered as soon as the waitress had left, folding his arms over his chest like a petulant child.

 

John leaned over the table, feeling an evil grin spread across his face. “Then,“ he hissed, “I'll give the waitress (who, by the way, has been trying to catch your eye ever since you came in) your phone number and tell her that you're available.“

 

“I'm not available,“ Sherlock muttered irritably.

 

“Yes, yes, married to your work, I know.“

 

Sherlock gave him an odd, quick look and averted his eyes again. It almost seemed as if he were biting his tongue. “Well …“ he cleared his throat, “… as I said, I needed to phone Mycroft.“

 

“So, why not use your phone?“

 

“I wanted a secure line, John. If the FSB are involved, I don't want them to listen in on my phone calls.“

 

“You really think they are behind this?“ John asked,  lowering his voice and casting a quick glance around the café.

 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know. Mycroft seemed alarmed … the old nervous Nellie,“ he added under his breath.

 

“And you talked to him for what, four hours?“

 

“Well, they had to locate him first. Took them quite a while. Turns out he's in New York, solidifying his dark reign over the UN.“

 

“And the embassy let you use their secure line? Just like that?“

 

“You'd be surprised what people are willing to do for you once you've mentioned that you're Mycroft Holmes's brother.“ The wrinkles forming around Sherlock's nose couldn't have been any deeper had he been talking about leprosy. (On second thought, maybe he wouldn't have considered that a disgusting topic of conversation at all.)

 

“Desperate times call for desperate measures, what?!“ John sniggered.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that, heaving a weary sigh.

 

“So, what did you talk to him about, then?“

 

“Lermontov.“

 

“You rang up your brother _in New York_ to talk about Russian poetry?“

 

“No! Don't you see? I asked him to look into whether there has ever been an FSB or KGB agent working under the code name 'Lermontov'.“

 

“Oh.“ At that moment, something started to click into place in John's mind. “That … is quite a good idea, actually. Hell, secret services often use names of famous artists as code names, don't they? It makes sense.“

 

“It does. Even though I don't like the idea of my brother getting involved.“

 

“To catch an enemy, turn to your arch-enemy,“ John announced with a smile.

 

The food arrived, and Sherlock gave the plate a nervous glance, poking the salad cautiously with a knife.

 

“The salad too?“

 

“Phone number, Sherlock. Phone number.“

 

♫♪♫

 

For all his protests and claims of not being hungry, Sherlock wolfed down his food quite greedily, insisting, however, on downing three cups of coffee afterwards to get rid of the 'nasty taste of food', as he put it.

 

Once they stepped outside into the cold winter sun, John asked, “What are we going to do now?“

 

“Actually, I've got time until tomorrow morning, when I will have to phone Mycroft again. I thought I could do you a favour and spend the rest of the day sightseeing with you.“

 

“Wait, what? Are you honestly saying that you're willing to behave like a normal human b–  Hang on, which sights do you mean?“ John enquired suspiciously.

 

“How about a nice library?“ Sherlock grinned.

 

“I _knew_ it,“ John muttered. “So, you still want to take a closer look at Lermontov's poems, then?“

 

“Never dismiss an option until you have all the facts, John.“

 

“Great,“ John huffed. “At least it'll be warm, I suppose.“

 

They walked alongside each other in silence for a minute.

 

“So, what do you know about this Lermontov bloke, then?“ John asked.

 

“He died an odd death as well.“

 

“Ask the man a question about poetry, and he will, without fail, turn it into a story about murder,“ John sighed.

 

“He died in a duel,“ Sherlock defended himself.

 

John stopped in his tracks, staring at his friend incredulously. “Is this a Russian thing? To die duelling over a woman?“

 

“He didn't. He was duelling over a joke.“

 

“Well, I hope it was a good one.“

 

♫♪♫

 

They spent a few boring hours at the library.

 

Granted, Sherlock didn't think them boring at all; it was John who was bored out of his skull. After all, he didn't speak a word of Russian,which didn't stop Sherlock from dragging him up and down endless aisles of Russian books, insisting that he needed him by his side to bounce ideas off of, only to forget about him the second he actually opened one of those books.

 

At one point, John caught the eye of a compassionate librarian and walked over to her, deciding to engage her in some small talk.

 

As it turned out, she knew a little English, and soon they were talking about the weather and other trivial things.

 

John thought she was quite pretty, actually. She looked a bit like Sarah, only with more make-up.

 

However, the pleasure of having a conversation with a normal human being ended rather abruptly when Sherlock suddenly turned up and interrupted them.

 

“Don't just stand around there, John. We've got work to do.“

 

“Sherlock! I am in the middle of a conversation …with … er … what was your name again?“

 

“You can practise your charm another time, John. She is completely useless to us.“

 

John groaned loudly. “Can you tell me where the dictionary section is, Sherlock?“

 

“Yes, it's– Why?“

 

“Because I want to look up the phrase 'Don't mind my friend; his manners are in a coma'. It might come in handy.“

 

The librarian actually giggled at that, and John felt the corners of his own mouth lift slightly as well.

 

His sarcasm seemed completely lost on Sherlock, however, who – without so much as batting an eyelid – replied, “You wouldn't get that sentence right. Grammar-wise.“

 

♫♪♫

 

At some point in the early evening, John dragged his friend into the entrance hall of the library to take a break. For a few long minutes, they sat around in a dark corner, drinking cheap coffee from a vending machine, both of them tired and frustrated, though for different reasons.

 

The silence seemed to stretch on forever. Eventually, John decided he should do something about it, lest his friend's mood grow even darker.

 

He cleared his throat. “This whole thing, all of these tests, the … er … G minor puzzle, the spice shop, Lermontov, all of this still doesn't explain the photograph, does it?“

 

“No, it doesn't,“ Sherlock agreed, turning his plastic cup round and round in his nimble fingers.

 

“Do you think our mysterious client used it as a bookmark to point us to the right page in the programme?“

 

Sherlock shook his head. “Why do that when you can just use a post-it? No, there has to be another reason why the picture of a young genius like him was tucked in between its pages.“

 

John thought he heard a distinctive popping sound as his jaw dropped. “Young genius?“

 

“Well, that's obvious, isn't it?“

 

“Er … no?“

 

For a second, Sherlock just stared at John incredulously. Then he pulled his German book out of his coat's inside pocket and started flipping through its pages. Apparently, he had tucked the picture inside to prevent it from getting creased.

 

“Here you go, John,“ Sherlock stated, gingerly handing him the photograph. “What do you see in this picture?“

 

John took the object in question, carefully holding it by its edges. “Well … er … there's a man. A young man. He's … about eighteen, nineteen at most.“

 

“Good. What else?“

 

John squinted, trying very hard to apply Sherlock's methods.

 

The boy was very handsome: straight nose, big brown eyes, long dark lashes and sensual, full lips. He had an open, trusting smile that spoke volumes of his instantly likeable nature, and there was something about his delicate, yet manly features that just screamed heartthrob.

 

“Well,“ John shrugged, “he's handsome. Obviously. All the girls at his school must be head over heels for him. Probably has a new girlfriend every week.“

 

“Doubt it.“

 

“What? Why?“

 

“It's obvious, isn't it?“

 

“Sherlock, _what_ do you see in this picture that I don't?“

 

Sherlock shrugged slightly. “I don't think he goes to school anymore. So, no classmates falling for him, no. And I don't think he's got a girlfriend; he just seems to be a very focused young man. Diligent. Hard-working. And he has got overprotective parents, I'm afraid. Could be … an overbearing mother. Also, he's definitely got something in common with me.“

 

 _The fact that he is ridiculously handsome,_ some part of John's brain insisted on pointing out for some reason.

 

“What do you mean?“ he managed to ask instead, trying to will down the blush he felt rising to his cheeks.

 

“He plays the violin.“

 

“You can't see that in the picture,“ John disagreed. “He _isn't holding_ a violin,“

 

“Look at him. Just look. The way he holds himself, left shoulder slightly raised and tense. Typical for a violinist. Notice the way he's put his bow hand on his hip but is letting his violin hand hang limply at his side. It looks as if the fingers of that left hand are subconsciously strumming the air, playing on an imaginary string instrument.“

 

“You're right!“ John exclaimed. “I've seen you do that.“

 

“See how the muscles in his left hand are much more developed than the ones in his right? Means he's either left-handed or a string player or both. And then, there's this!“ Sherlock whipped out his magnifying glass, holding it out to John. “Take a look at the left side of his neck, right under his jaw. It's a bit hidden in the shadow but still visible. A tiny mark, commonly referred to as fiddlers' neck.“

 

“You mean like a 'violin hickey'?“ John asked, bursting out laughing.

 

Sherlock just rolled his eyes at that. “Well, if you absolutely _must_ call it that …“

 

“I think I can see it, yes,“ John tried to placate his friend, handing him back his magnifying glass. “But what about him being diligent?“

 

Sherlock let out one of his rare, quiet laughs. “You have to practise _a lot_ to get a violin mark, John … I really like to play every once in a while, but I don't have that kind of 'badge of honour' on my neck. Look.“

 

At that, Sherlock tilted his head back slightly, exposing his long white neck.

 

For some reason, John had to gulp and take a deep breath. Why did this coffee make his mouth go dry all of a sudden?

 

“Yes … er … I see,“ he croaked.

 

“Hence my deduction that he doesn't go to school,“ Sherlock continued undeterred, looking back at John. “Probably some sort of wunderkind touring Russia's concert halls.“

 

“Why the violin, though? Could be another instrument,“ John pointed out. “How about … er … the viola?“

 

“The viola is not an instrument, John,“ Sherlock replied with a pretentious smile on his face.

 

“That's not true, it's– Oh, you mean that as a joke. Why do you have to be so bloody sarcastic all the time? It's a _very nice_ instrument and– “

 

“That's exactly what Mycroft keeps telling me. Well, he's just jealous, I suppose.“

 

“Mycroft plays the viola?“

 

“How is that relevant to the case, John?“

 

“Okay, forget it. So, our young friend here has helicopter parents, you say?“

 

“Have you ever heard of a child prodigy whose parents weren't pushy? And then, … _look_ at him! Warm, friendly smile. A wild, almost childlike sparkle in his eyes. But his hair is neatly parted in an old-fashioned way. He strikes me more as the kind of boy who would want his hair to have a stylish, messy look, just to show how proud he is to be a proper virtuoso. No, no, John, that hair is not his doing. It's something mothers, or possibly grandmothers, do before you get your picture taken: they corner you with a comb and brush; and then they lunge themselves at you and– “

 

“You seem to know _an awful lot_ about that?“ John pointed out with a smile, earning himself a dark glare from his friend. He quickly took a sip of his cooling coffee to avoid those eerie grey eyes.  

 

“Actually, there's still one thing I'm not sure about,“ Sherlock muttered suddenly.

 

“And what would that be?“

 

“Whether he really _is_ that friendly and charming.“

 

“Well, he looks like a nice kid,“ John shrugged.

 

“That doesn't mean a thing,“ Sherlock spat. “For all I know, he could be Satan incarnate.“

 

“The diabolical child genius? _Really?!_ “ John quipped. “Why would you think that?“

 

“Because if – _if_ he is behind this, if it was him who sent us this picture, then he's a sly dog. That's why.“ Sherlock took the photograph from John's hand and flipped it over. “Look! He didn't have it developed in a shop. It was printed out at home. There is no date stamp on the back. – Now, date stamps look different from country to country, from city to city, and even from photo lab to photo lab, John, and I can tell them apart. Hundreds of them. He must have known that I would try to find out something about him by looking at the stamp on the back of the picture … He's hiding where he lives! But oh, I'll find him. You'll see.“

 

“You can tell hundreds of photo date stamps apart?“ John blurted out.

 

“Yes. What about it?“

 

“I think you're the strangest person I've ever met,“ John whispered, shaking his head in amazement.

 

“Sometimes I don't know whether you mean that in a good way or not,“ Sherlock replied quietly, downing the rest of his now-cold coffee.

 

♫♪♫

 

On their way back to the hotel, John insisted they take an evening stroll around Red Square, and Sherlock complied grudgingly – although his reluctance seemed to be just a pose to protect his reputation as an unromantic, calculating machine; he didn't look like he _really_ had anything against a bit of fresh air.

 

It was a magical evening; white snowflakes were dancing around them to an inaudible melody as they strolled across the square, making it look like something out of a Russian fairy tale, or possibly a _Doctor Zhivago_ film scene. Despite the cold and the darkness, there was still a surprisingly large amount of people on the square, less tourists and more locals now, couples mostly, strolling around arm in arm. Still, the falling snow did somehow soften all the sounds around them, lending an intimate feel to the scenery.

 

Obviously, Sherlock wasn't one for admiring said scenery; he did, however, seem to smile a few times, watching John marvel at the beauty surrounding them.

 

John, for his part, didn't know where to look first. With great enthusiasm, he tried to point out each and every little detail about the intricate architecture around them but gave up soon, feeling overwhelmed. “Look, Sherlock! The snow-covered Kremlin wall! And there: St Basil's Cathedral! Those colours are just …“

 

He half-expected Sherlock to scoff and sneer. What he got, however, was a silent smile. It seemed as if the snow had somehow managed to soften the sharp edges of this man's nature too.

 

 _And how on earth does he actually smile like that?_ John mused. There was something warm in Sherlock's eyes. Something kind, yet mysterious, almost nostalgic. Haunted. Gentle and sad. Both at the same time. As though he weren't smiling at the scenery at all. As though he were smiling at John's enthusiasm instead. At John's running around, scuffing at the snow with the tip of his shoe. At John's throwing snowballs at the Kremlin wall, laughing like a child.

 

It was an enigmatic, unreadable smile on a face, the colour of snow.

 

For a second, John wondered what would happen if he were to take Sherlock's hand, if he were to capture it and lace his fingers in between Sherlock's longer ones in one swift _legato_ movement.

 

He quickly shook himself out of his reverie, wondering why he was even thinking this. Maybe he was just getting sentimental, seeing all those people around them walking hand in hand. Yes, that was probably the reason for his bizarre thoughts.

 

He could see a few delicate snowflakes land in Sherlock's black hair.

 

“Aren't you cold? Without a hat, I mean,“ he heard himself ask suddenly.

 

“Hats are for the weak,“ Sherlock's deep voice replied without hesitation. “And even if I had one, it would probably just be scared of that woolly monstrosity on your head,“ he added with a teasing note in his voice.

 

“What's wrong with my hat? I bought it just today.“

 

“It's orange.“

 

“It's warm.“

 

“ _And_ orange. But then, the fact that you would even consider wearing an appalling thing like this, and that you're wearing it so innocently, is probably the reason why I– “ All of a sudden, his mouth snapped shut as if he'd just realised what he'd been about to say.

 

“The reason for what?“

 

“Never mind,“ Sherlock replied curtly. “Are you quite done with your stroll now? We should be heading back to our hotel.“


	5. Dolce e tranquillo

**Title:** A Very Cold Case

 **Pairing:** (eventual) John/Sherlock

 **Rating:** PG

 **Spoilers:** Vaguely for series 1

 **Warnings:** None for this chapter

 **Summary:** _Violin music, 19_ _ th_ _-century poets, and a string of puzzles, presented to Sherlock by an enigmatic client (or adversary?), who prefers to stay in the shadows_

 

**5\. Chapter: Dolce e tranquillo**

 

“You know, you could just pop downstairs and tell them to switch on the heating.“

 

“The night porter is from Armenia, John, if you haven't noticed. And my Armenian is a bit rusty.“

 

“I'm sure his Russian is just fine.“

 

But the door to the bathroom had already fallen shut.

 

“You lazy sod!“ John shouted.

 

There was no reply.

 

♫♪♫

 

A few minutes later, when John was already lying in bed, wondering if Sherlock would once again spend the whole night awake, the man in question suddenly sat down on the other side of the bed.  

 

Right. So, that probably meant he intended to sleep, after all.

 

In the same bed.

 

With him.

 

Both of them in … John gulped, trying not to look anywhere in particular – or, better still, to study the ceiling.

 

Quite an interesting ceiling, actually.

 

 _Very_ interesting.

 

With a decisive click, the light was suddenly switched off, and the mattress shifted as someone crawled into bed.

 

A few minutes passed.

 

John thought he could hear his own heartbeat echo in the darkness.

 

The silence was acutely uncomfortable. What was even more awkward was the fact that they were now both lying on their backs, staring into the darkness, trying not to touch inadvertently, pretending not to care or notice that the other one was probably doing the exact same thing.

 

“So, was your mother overprotective of you when you were a child?“ John suddenly broke the silence.

 

Sherlock's response came instantly, proving that the man hadn't even come close to falling asleep yet, “If you're considering a new field of work, _Doctor_ , try forsensic pathology, not psychoanalysis. It would be more relevant to our work.“

 

“ _Was_ she?“ John breathed timidly, still trying not to look at the man lying beside him.

 

“If you think people's behaviour is always triggered by some childhood trauma, John, you're in for a _huge_ disappointment.“ John thought he could almost feel the mattress vibrate with the depth of his friend's voice. “Sometimes parents are just ordinary, everyday people.“

 

“So, what's she like?“ Maybe it was Sherlock's extravagant personality and alien beauty that made it hard for John to imagine that his friend even _had_ parents and hadn't just arrived on Earth in a flying saucer – or, more likely, a flying chemistry set.

 

There was a short pause, and John didn't think he would get an answer at all –  in fact, Sherlock had been quiet and evasive ever since their evening stroll – which was probably why John almost flinched when, at last, came the quiet reply, “Very tall. Very slender. Very French.“

 

“Your mother is _French_?“

 

He didn't know why he was so surprised.

 

With Sherlock, it just seemed far too intimate a detail to know. Even though it would have probably been seen as trivial with everyone else. Somehow, knowing trivial things about Sherlock _was_ intimate, John realised. Maybe because the man usually appeared so detached from the human race.

 

“Really?“ John repeated his question. “The woman you and Mycroft talked about? The one he called 'Mummy'? She is French?“

 

“Oh well, he says 'Mummy' … I say 'Maman' …“ Sherlock muttered.

 

“Really?“

 

This time, there was no answer at all, and John had to rephrase the question. “So, you're

half-French?“ He was still trying to wrap his head around it.

 

“I believe that's what I just said.“

 

“But then– “

 

“John, much as I appreciate your effort at small talk, I have to insist that it bores me terribly and that I find it a rather pointless exercise.“

 

There was a long silence, and John wasn't sure whether to be angry with Sherlock for his hostile reaction to a perfectly innocent question, or if he should, in fact, apologise for being curious.

 

Besides, there was still the issue of them both lying in the same bed, separated only by a few inches.

 

Finally, John settled on turning onto his side; this had the advantage of getting his weight off his bad shoulder and the added bonus of facing away from Sherlock.

 

“My shoulder hurts,“ he huffed, unable to suppress the accusing tone in his voice. “I think it's the cold in this country.“

 

There was no reply. But at the exact moment that John decided to squeeze his eyes shut, a hand suddenly closed around his bad shoulder, causing warmth to seep through the fabric of his t-shirt. A second hand tenderly landed on his shoulder blade, thus trapping his old war wound in between two warm palms.

 

John's pulse jumped.

 

The hands didn't move away.

 

The heat radiating between them and through his shoulder felt glorious; for some reason, it felt better than anything any physical therapist treating him had ever managed to achieve. Only that now there was an unnameable, worrying feeling in the pit of his stomach, that he tried to ignore for the time being.

 

He didn't notice when he finally fell asleep, but he quite vividly remembered the fact that he didn't utter another word, tongue-tied and exhausted as he was, and that Sherlock didn't remove his hands, whispering lowly, “You will like her,“ just as John was slipping into sleep.

 

♫♪♫

 

He awoke, feeling well-rested, warm and incredibly comfortable, and it took him a few minutes to work out why that was.

 

It turned out that someone's lean arm was draped protectively across his torso, a warm hand resting on his stomach (under the t-shirt). An iron-hard chest was pressed against his back, and for a second, John thought that this should probably feel wrong. It should … but somehow he was still too tired to realise why. And what mattered was: it didn't.

 

Maybe that was because he could smell the fresh, pleasant scent of someone's hair, or maybe it was due to the pair of warm feet pressed against his. Usually, what he got was cold feet – cold, smaller feet, that tried to wedge themselves in between his warmer, bigger ones. These feet, however, were comfortably warm and felt right against his in every way.

 

There weren't any other body parts pressed up against John's, which was probably why it took his sleep-befuddled brain so long to work out what was going on.

 

When he finally caught up with reality, he let out a small gasp, for there were two things that had never happened before: a) his friend, Sherlock Holmes, was apparently more tired than him, and b) he was in bed with said friend.

 

He didn't know which of those two facts shocked him more.

 

However, even _after_ he had worked that out, he managed to pretend that everything was perfectly in order and stayed in bed for another ten minutes or so, trying to convince himself that this was in _no_ _way_ compromising, no, that it was, in fact, just a health precaution. After all, getting up too quickly could mess with a person's blood pressure, and he didn't want that to happen, did he? Yes, that was the reason and nothing else, he thought. He was a doctor; he knew what he was doing.

 

When finally he was out of excuses, he sighed and got up gingerly, putting a pillow under Sherlock's arm as he left the bed. The man seemed to shift minutely, gripping it as tightly as he had held John only a few moments earlier, but once he had embraced it fully, he stopped stirring again.

 

John realised that he could have probably stomped his feet and yelled, for what it was worth; Sherlock was sleeping like a log.

 

 _He is probably completely exhausted,_ the part of John's brain that had a medical degree offered. _He was awake for almost 48 hours, and most of that time, he was running around in the cold, constantly overexcited and nervous, and on an empty stomach at that._ For some reason, the doctor in him approved of the fact that even Sherlock was apparently sometimes overwhelmed by his own body – overwhelmed and forced into the realms of sleep.

 

And it was definitely a sight to behold. There was something incredibly relaxed about his friend, raven curls spilled out across the snow-white pillow, long limbs everywhere, pyjamas crumpled and skin slightly flushed in a healthy, pink glow. Actually, it was such an endearing sight that, for a second, John considered climbing back into bed … to smell this hair again, to put an arm around this man, to tenderly stroke a thumb over those cheekbones, to marvel at those long, black lashes resting on those pale cheeks …

 

John shook himself out of his reverie.

 

What was going on? What was wrong with him? Why did he keep thinking these thoughts about his friend?

 

Probably a strange reaction to the fact that he felt a bit lost in this foreign country with its strange, unpronounceable language, afraid of the long arm of its secret service. Yes, that seemed the only explanation of all the facts. It was time for him to get in the shower, stop being so childishly clingy and revert back to acting like a rational grown-up.

 

He stepped into the bathroom. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry was, for some reason, laughing evilly at him.

 

♫♪♫

 

It was a small glass booth, and each and every embassy employee seemed to be eyeing them suspiciously from the outside of its soundproof walls. John mused that the reason for that was either the erratic behaviour Sherlock had displayed upon entering the building, or the fact that everbody was secretly curious as to what the men who had such easy access to the mighty Mycroft Holmes might look like.

 

The man himself picked up on the first ring.

 

“Sherlock! John! How _nice_ to hear from you,“ the sugary voice resounded inside the phone box.

 

John looked around in astonishment, checking the environment for hidden cameras, vaguely thinking that maybe Big Brother _was_ _indeed_ watching them.

 

“How do you know I'm here as well?“ he blurted out before Sherlock could hijack the conversation.

 

The grin in Mycroft's voice was evident. “Oh, _please_ , John. Sherlock would never show up twice in a row without bringing along his … _better half_ ,“ he replied, putting a strong emphasis on the last two words.

 

“I'm not his– “

 

“Mycroft, what have you found out?“ Sherlock interrupted him irritably. “The sooner you tell us, the sooner you can go back to your hotel room and enjoy the rest of your night's sleep – or molest whoever it is that puts up with your fat physique.“

 

“Tut, tut, Sherlock,“ Mycroft replied sweetly. “Why so angry? I was just chatting with John about your little honeymoon trip. Moscow in the snow! How romantic! Been to the Bolshoi yet? The Tretyakov Gallery? Have you considered a sleigh ride? In a Russian troika, you know? It can be _so_ romantic. I bet John would _love_ to put on a warm fur coat and cuddle up to– “

 

“Lermontov!“ Sherlock snapped.

 

“If you absolutely insist. But I thought he'd rather cuddle with you,“ Mycroft chuckled.

 

“What have you found out?“ Sherlock's sharp voice cut through his brother's.

 

Mycroft sighed dramatically. “It's always the same with him, John. I honestly don't know how you put up with it. He can be so disrespectful and rude! Ghastly, really! But love is blind, apparently. If he ever hurts you, don't hesitate to ask for my help, John … All right … Lermontov …“ They could hear the faint rustle of paper, as if someone were flipping through a notebook. “You were right, Sherlock,“ Mycroft finally announced in a dull, listless voice.

 

“About what?“

 

“'Lermontov' was the code name of a KGB agent during the Cold War.“

 

“And?“

 

“He made himself scarce in the troubled times that followed the collapse of the Soviet Union. Disappeared.“

 

John glanced over at Sherlock, noting the excited sparkle in his friend's eyes. The man looked nothing like the sleeping form in their bed this morning.

 

“You must understand,“ Mycroft's bored, posh voice continued, “that the 1990s were a tumultuous time for Russia. Many government employees didn't get paid very much, if anything at all. So, some of them went for … greener pastures.“

 

“Greener pastures?“

 

“Crime, Sherlock,“ Mycroft sighed listlessly.

 

It was clear from the way Sherlock's chest started heaving and his eyes were shining, clear from his sudden intake of breath, but even if John hadn't looked at his friend, he would have known that Sherlock was pleased beyond reason.

 

“Lermontov became one of the most powerful bosses of the Russian underworld,“ Mycroft continued. “Then, in 1998, at the time of the devaluation of the rouble, he tried his luck elsewhere and emigrated to the US, soon becoming the head of a major New York-based crime syndicate. By the way, he tried to get his claws into the crime business in Britain as well. But apparently, your friend Moriarty didn't like other people on his territory and made sure that he never put down roots in the UK. But … well, Lermontov got rich, anyway. Very rich. While remaining a true gentleman. Not one of those culturally illiterate criminals. You should see the aliases he used over the years. There's quite a list … Lermontov, Pushkin, Tchaikovsky, Repin, Nabokov … However, there were a few random ones as well … Livanov, Solomin; the last one he used was Orel … What a man! A criminal mastermind. But one with taste, manners, charm, money and influence. A connoisseur of crime, an artist in his field … _and_ an astoundingly knowledgeable patron of the arts. Which, by the way, is all the more surprising, given the fact that he came from a humble social background and– “

 

“Yes, yes,“ Sherlock interrupted him impatiently, “that's all well and good, but what about _now_?“

 

John thought he could hear his friend's staccato breaths reverberate off the glass walls of the small booth now.

 

“Manners, Sherlock! You can't keep interrupti– “

 

“Where is Lermontov _now_? I need to know what he's up to! What is he doing?“

 

“Oh, not much, I suppose,“ Mycroft replied in a bored tone. “Lying around a lot.“

 

“What do you mean?“

 

“He's dead. Has been for a few years now.“

 

With a loud thump, Sherlock's shoulder slammed into the glass as he slumped back against the wall of the booth.

 

“But … that …“

 

“Would mean he's not the one sending you these little love notes, that make John so jealous, no,“ Mycroft replied, seemingly amused by his own joke.

 

“I'm not jeal– “ John tried to chime in, but Sherlock was already firing his next question.

 

“What about the FSB, then?“

 

“Nothing, Sherlock, there is nothing. I'm sorry. Well, actually … _I'm not!_ Because this means my little brother will spare me the embarrassment of ringing them up to get him out of a Russian prison. _Even I_ would need about a week to get you out of there. So, please, do try and behave, Sherlock. I'm tired of constantly saving the day for you. Your fun, little pool _intermezzo_ was quite enough for my nerves, you know.“

 

“There's nothing? Nothing at all?“ Sherlock insisted.

 

“Nothing,“ Mycroft confirmed. “I've put my ears to the ground, and there's definitely nothing stirring. No one in the FSB even took notice of your arrival in Russia. You're just two tourists on holiday.“

 

At that, John couldn't suppress a sigh of relief, aware, however, of the look of utter disappointment on Sherlock's face.

 

“Could it simply be,“ he asked before Sherlock could say anything, “that this whole charade is just a joke? A joke by some bored creep who's trying to wind us up?“

 

“Entirely possible, John,“ Mycroft replied, snapping his notebook shut.

 

“So, we just hit a dead end,“ John enquired, noting the deepening frown on Sherlock's face, “in thinking that this had anything to do with a KGB agent? It was just a coincidence?“

 

“That's very likely, yes,“ Mycroft crooned. “Whoever is doing this is most likely just an avid fan of classical music and Russian poetry. Well, Lermontov's works _are_ lovely, aren't they?“ he added, sugary tone firmly in place.

 

“Er … I wouldn't know,“ John admitted. “Sherlock has worked his way through each of his books at the library, though.“

 

“Oh, you don't know what you're missing, John,“Mycroft purred, a condescending fake smile audible in his voice. “Lermontov's poems are so delightful. Wait, how did it go again? ' _The Bard is killed! The honour's striver / Fell, slandered by a gossip's dread, / With lead in breast and vengeful fire, / Drooped with his ever-proud head'_ ,“ he declaimed. “Too bad I can't seem to remember the Russian original. Sherlock, do you? The lyricism and grace of this poe– “

 

Sherlock's head snapped up as if a snake had bitten him. “What's that?“

 

“Well, _Death of a Poet_ ,of course,“ Mycroft replied sweetly. “I know. How … unoriginalof me to quote his best-known poem! But it is fascinating, don't you agree? The fact that Lermontov actually wrote this poem about Pushkin's death in a duel and that later he died the exact same– “

 

“I have to go!“ Sherlock exclaimed, swiftly opening the door of the phone box.

 

“What? No, Sherlock, wait,“ John called out. But his friend was already gone.

 

“He is gone,“ he muttered. “Mycroft, he is gone!“

 

“Oh dear, what a shame. We were having such a nice chat about poetry,“ Mycroft sighed, his voice honeyed and eerie like one of those _flageolet_ tones Sherlock sometimes produced on his violin.

 

“I don't know what is going on. And I hate it,“ John suddenly blurted out. “All this running around and being left in the dark …“

 

“Quite understandable,“ the dulcet voice at the other end of the line replied. “My brother can be downright insufferable. A frightful boyfriend, no doubt.“

 

“I'm not his boyfriend!“ John snapped.

 

There was something between a cough and a suppressed snort coming from the receiver. “As you say, John, as you say.“

 

“Listen,“ John said irritably, “is it true that you're both half-French? That your mother is French?“

 

There was a short pause, and what came then was maybe the most surprising thing that had happened on this day so far: Mycroft's voice changed from amused to serious and worried.

 

“Astounding!“ he said with a distinct lack of pompousness in his tone.

 

“What is?“ John asked in irritation.

 

“He actually _talks_ to you.“

 

It was a neutral statement. No insinuations. No teasing undertones. Just plain honesty. Maybe for the first time.

 

“He tells you things. That's … unusual,“ Mycroft added.

 

“Well,“ John shrugged helplessly, “that's what friends do.“

 

What came next was even more surprising.

 

John had heard so many allusions to and jokes about him and Sherlock being a couple that he often didn't even bother to protest anymore. Mostly, he managed to ignore them, and it had somehow  become second nature to him to block out what Mycroft was actually saying when he was reprimanding his brother and telling him to not hurt John's feelings.

 

Which was why Mycroft's next words came as a complete surprise.

 

“Don't hurt him, John!“ Mycroft's voice sounded fierce, lacking its usual arrogance. “Don't! He likes you. He must. Otherwise he wouldn't … Just don't hurt him.“

 

“I don't intend to,“ John replied in confusion. _If you don't count the fact that I'm going to strangle the stupid bastard for leaving me behind_ … _again,_ he added in his thoughts. “Why should I hurt him? I'm here to make sure no one else does. That's where I belong – by his side. I'd … I'd die for your brother,“ he added in a whisper.

 

Another silence ensued, and John was holding his breath now, waiting to see what would happen.

 

There was a faint sound at the other end of the line, as if a door had been opened, and it seemed as if Mycroft were quickly covering the mouthpiece of his phone. John could barely make out the words “Love, I'll be finished in a– “ wondering if Mycroft was talking to Anthea, his odd, nameless secretary.

 

When Mycroft's voice came back, it had regained its false cheerfulness. “I really have to go back to my hotel now, John. It's still the middle of the night here, and I have a hellish day ahead of me tomorrow, what with explaining those speech notes to the Secretary General. The man is hopeless … Well, it was a pleasure chatting with you, John. As always,“ he announced blithely. “Kick my insufferable brother in the shins from me, will you?! And … enjoy your honeymoon, you two.“

 

There was a sudden click, and the line went dead before John could so much as utter a word, leaving him standing in the phone box. About a dozen embassy employees were busily pretending not to be staring at him.

 

♫♪♫

 

As soon as he stepped outside the embassy building, someone grabbed him roughly by the elbow.

 

“ _There_ you are.“

 

“I think I should be saying this to you, Sherlock,“ John fumed. “Where the hell have you been?“

 

Sherlock gave him a triumphant grin and held up a sheet of paper; there was something printed on it in Cyrillic letters. “One of the embassy employees was so nice as to let me use his computer.“

 

“By which you mean you just hijacked it without asking the owner for permission while he was downstairs, busy staring at me talking to Mycroft.“

 

“Amounts to the same thing, doesn't it?“

 

They were walking along the river now, Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration as he stared at the paper in his hand. How the man even managed to walk without stumbling was completely beyond John, as he himself had difficulty not to slip on the patches of ice covering the pavement – and that was _without_ reading while walking.

 

“So, what is this? What did you print out?“

 

“Oh, we were stupid, stupid,“ Sherlock muttered distractedly, somehow managing to navigate around a group of pedestrians without tearing his eyes away from the paper. “One google search, and I had it.“

 

“Had what?“ John enquired, hurrying after his friend as quickly as his shorter legs would allow him.

 

“The poem, John, the poem. The one Mycroft was quoting from. Lermontov's _Death of a Poet_. We spent our entire afternoon at the library, looking up his most neglected, arcane poems, and even his almost-forgotten works, racking our brains, when it was, in fact, so easy, so unoriginal, that I didn't even consider it.“

 

“Easy?“ John said as they crossed the road, Sherlock not at all bothered by the deafening traffic that was rushing around them, eyes fixed on the poem.

 

“Of course, John. It's an old mistake of mine: I tend to be dismissive of things that I deem unoriginal.“

 

“You don't say,“ John quipped.

 

“It's all so simple, John,“ Sherlock continued, undeterred. “Our first two puzzles had something to do with Pushkin. If one thing leads to another, then we certainly shouldn't dismiss the fact that Lermontov wrote a poem about Pushkin's death. It's so simple that it's almost embarrassing that we didn't see it earlier. Well, me at least. You couldn't have possibly– “

 

“So, you think the clue is in the poem? … Careful, Sherlock, there is an open manhole!“

 

“Hm? … Yes, the clue must be in here somewhere … somewhere in here … there must be …“

 

Sherlock started to recite Russian verses, mumbling to himself and managing to, yet again, sidestep every obstacle in his path.

 

“And, _of course_ , you intend to throw all your energy into solving the next puzzle, without _ever_ considering that this whole paper chase might just be the joke of a lunatic,“ John muttered in frustration.

 

“Must be … must be … It's not like the clue can be in the music this time. There _is_ no music! It must be somewhere in the text itself … hidden … I just have to … break the code … understand the pun … whatever it is … I have to find it …“

 

“Careful where you walk!“ John exclaimed, watching Sherlock narrowly miss a frozen puddle as he strode on like a sleepwalker.

 

They continued walking side by side, John shaking his head in exasperation, Sherlock staring at the paper in his outstretched hand, reading the poem over and over again, not caring that they were, in fact, now crossing a wide six-lane boulevard and that cars were honking loudly at them.

 

“I think Mycroft wasn't alone,“ John stated after a while.

 

“Hm?“

 

“Mycroft, he wasn't alone, Sherlock!“

 

“Of course not. He never is,“ Sherlock replied distractedly.

 

“Do you mean in his work or in his … er … personal life?“

 

“Both,“ Sherlock said curtly.

 

“So, is he seeing his secretary, then?“ John asked. “The one that … erm … is always with him?“

 

That suddenly got Sherlock's attention; the man tore his eyes away from the paper in his hand. “You mean the one that you've been ogling every time you've seen her?“

 

“I didn't ogle her; I was just being polite,“ John protested.

 

“Of course, John,“ Sherlock replied, voice positively acerbic by now. “And I'm known for having no observational skills whatsoever.“

 

“So, is it her?“ John said, trying to deflect.

 

“No.“

 

“Wait a second. You … you've got no idea who it is, am I right?“

 

“Thanks for rubbing my nose in it.“

 

“The great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know who his brother is dating,“ John announced with a wide grin, causing a few passers-by to give them odd looks.

 

“He's just good at covering his tracks,“ Sherlock replied chagrined, dismissively waving the paper  in his hand.

 

“You honestly don't know?“ John asked again, amusement bubbling up inside him.

 

“I'll find it out eventually,“ Sherlock huffed. “It's just a little game we play: I pretend to not be looking for clues, and he pretends to not be dating them.“

 

“ _Them?_ “

 

“Well, I don't know who it is, so I'm not assuming anything. I've already found out a few things, though.“

 

“Like what?“

 

“They are working together. Hand in hand, actually. Two éminences grises …“

 

“Probably some stern, stiff-upper-lip lady from the Foreign Office,“ John suggested, laughing.

 

“Not necessarily. Holmeses tend to fall for their opposites … Well, as I said, I'll find out about them eventually,“ Sherlock added quickly. “Just like I found out their surname. It's Tucker, by the way.“

 

“Well, that's not much to start with,“ John laughed.

 

♫♪♫

 

If John had hoped to see more of the city, he was disappointed. They headed back to their hotel, where Sherlock sat down at the table, insisting that John not leave the room because he needed him.

 

“You never need me,“ John argued. “You will just sit there and stare at that poem for hours until epiphany strikes again.“

 

Sherlock didn't respond, eyes scanning the Cyrillic lines again and again.

 

“See?“ John said, letting himself fall onto the bed. “Watching you is like watching a computer solve a complicated maths problem. Like looking at a laptop and wondering how many calculations the thing is doing per second.“

 

“Epiphany never strikes out of the blue,“ Sherlock suddenly stated, his voice low, eyes not leaving the poem. “Sometimes, inspiration needs a nudge. And you are very good at nudging me in the right direction. You just don't know it, John.“

 

John didn't know what to say to this, and he wasn't sure Sherlock even wanted a reply.

 

When John closed his eyes, he could almost imagine the sound of a whirring computer doing calculations, going through all the possible answers, all the possible ways out of the labyrinth.

 

It was not yet midday when when he fell asleep again, fully clothed and on top of the duvet.

 

He dreamt of a snowflake landing on his hand, but not melting. Instead, it seemed to cause a gentle feeling of warmth to spread through his hand and up his arm, towards his bad shoulder.

 

In his dream, he heard Sherlock's voice whispering something close to his ear. He could only pick out a few words, but they were enough to make him understand that this was just a dream. “A duellist never fights alone. He needs a second he can rely on … Even a solo violinist sometimes needs a page-turner …“ John smiled in his sleep. When he awoke, his friend was sitting motionless at the table.

 

The next few hours passed in much the same way; John ordered room service, ate, slept, ordered room service again, tried to get Sherlock to eat something (failing abysmally), and slept again.

 

Every time he opened his eyes, Sherlock was still in the exact same position, sitting at the table, eyes fixed on the paper in front of him, back rigid, lips moving silently as if in prayer. It was mesmerising and a bit scary to watch his friend in this state of intense concentration, and John caught himself thinking that a computer would have probably broken down by now. Sherlock, however, hadn't even moved a muscle; he didn't seem tired at all and probably hadn't even noticed how much time had passed.

 

John got up, stretched, and looked out of the window. Outside, the snow was falling in thick sheets, causing the world to disappear behind a veil of white flakes in the darkness of the early evening. God, how much more snow could possibly come down over this country? Did it never stop? It was supposed to be spring after all, wasn't it?

 

Not long now, and some night porter or other evil demiurge would switch off the heating for the night, and they would be sitting here in the cold again. Although Sherlock probably wouldn't even notice how quickly the room would turn into an ice box.

 

“And to think that we could have been in France instead!“ John sighed, interrupting the silence that had lasted for hours already. “But no, Mr half-French preferred to go to Russia in the winter, just to chase after some puzzle maker who's probably laughing his arse off by now.“

 

Sherlock didn't react, his mind apparently miles away, going over the intricacies of Russian rhymes and lyrical metres.

 

“You could have just as easily played interpreter for me in Paris,“ John continued. “With the slight but significant difference, that it would have been spring there. It would have been warm … Just imagine: strolling along the Seine, sitting on the terrace of a little café, drinking coffee and watching the sun set over Montmartre …“ He broke off, noticing that his thoughts were veering away from what people who were just friends were supposed to do, and that he had sounded as if he had actually been talking about going on honeymoon. Mycroft's fault, no doubt. He gazed back out the window, at the tons and tons of snow coming down.

 

The response came so suddenly that he actually flinched.

 

“I can still take you to Paris,“ Sherlock said quietly, voice a bit hoarse from hours of silence, yet sincere.

 

John looked over to where his friend was sitting and tried to think of a reply. But somehow, his mind didn't seem to want to come up with anything that wouldn't sound awkward or downright wrong. Mycroft's fault. All of it.

 

He flopped down on the bed again … Did that pillow still smell of Sherlock's hair? … And no, he shouldn't be noticing this, he told himself. He should be thinking of Sarah or Mycroft's not-girlfriend not-Anthea or that librarian he had chatted with yesterday.

 

But, in the end, it all came down to the fact that the pillow smelled of Sherlock's hair and that two buttons of Sherlock's shirt were now undone, revealing a long white neck and a hint of collarbone. It was almost physically impossible to think of anyone else when the question of how the chest underneath that shirt might look had suddenly become an important one … the same chest that, just this morning, had been pressed against …

 

“Do you _really_ think I'm not well-educated?“ John blurted out, trying to say something, anything, to pull himself out of those thoughts.

 

“Hm?“

 

“I mean, I consider myself well-educated, you know. I'm a doctor, for God's sake!“

 

Sherlock didn't react.

 

“But of course … compared to you and Mycroft …“ John threw his hands up in surrender. “You know, I have a university education and everything. It's not like I don't know _anything_ about literature. But Russian poetry and obscure violin sonatas? Sorry, that's … I feel lost just listening to the two of you. You are just so …“ He searched for the right word for a moment. “… so 'old school'. You seem to think everyone else operates on the same level.“

 

Sherlock didn't move, eyes fixed on his task.

 

“I mean, it's so obvious,“ John continued. “Old money. Posh upbringing. An upper-class family. Public school. Then Oxbridge … Which one was it, by the way?“

 

Sherlock didn't look as if he wanted to partake in the conversation any time soon.

 

“No way someone like me can play in the same league as you. It all comes down to money and– “

 

“Oh, stop whining,“ Sherlock snapped. “I can inform you that I've met cloakroom attendants who knew more about the plays shown at their theatre than the directors of said plays. Or ushers at the concert hall with whom I could talk about music for hours on end just because they were exposed to it every evening.“

 

“Yes, there are some rare exceptions,“ John admitted. “There are people who successfully self-educate. But that's not how it usually works, is it? Someone like Lermontov, our KGB agent I mean, is a total exception. The fact that he came from a humble social background and … Sherlock, what is it?“

 

The man's eyes had suddenly gone wide, both hands shooting up in the air. “Oh!“

 

“Sherlock, what's going on? Is it something I said?“

 

“Your phone. Quick. Type. These words exactly: ' _What did he do prior to recruitment? SH'_.“

 

“Am I supposed to send this to Mycroft?“

 

“Yes, of course,“ Sherlock exclaimed impatiently. “Hurry.“

 

A few seconds later, John's phone beeped with a text, and Sherlock snatched it out of his hand, grey eyes going even wider.

 

John could barely see the display from the corner of his eyes. “I didn't even know my phone could display Cyrillic characters …“

 

But Sherlock wasn't paying him any attention at all; his eyes were darting back and forth between the phone and the poem.


	6. Accelerando

**Title:** A Very Cold Case

 **Pairing:** (eventual) John/Sherlock

 **Rating:** PG

 **Spoilers:** Vaguely for series 1

 **Warnings:** None for this chapter

 **Summary:** _Violin music, 19_ _ th_ _-century poets, and a string of puzzles, presented to Sherlock by an enigmatic client (or adversary?), who prefers to stay in the shadows_

 

**6\. Chapter: Accelerando**

 

“Sherlock, this is madness,“ John huffed, hurrying alongside the frantic detective. For the second time on this day, he was trying not to slip on the ice-covered pavement – and this time, in complete darkness.

 

“I told you; it all makes sense now,“ Sherlock replied defensively.

 

“But I thought we dismissed Lermontov-Orel … or whatever this agent's name was?“

 

“I already told you I never dismiss an option until I have all the facts, John.“

 

“But the guy is dead.“

 

“That's _his_ problem.“

 

“ _How_ could his former place of work possibly be of any importance whatsoever?“

 

“I've told you; he worked at the State Literature Museum as a security guard.“

 

“So?“

 

“I was wrong again,“ Sherlock muttered darkly.

 

“What?“

 

“It's the same method _again_ , John! Don't you understand? Same as with the other puzzles. The clue wasn't in the poem itself.“ Sherlock shoved the print-out under John's nose; the sheet of paper seemed to be shaking slightly. Clearly, Sherlock was excited. “There! The line below the actual poem. The one in brackets. It's pure chance that I've actually printed it out this way.“

 

“Yeah, sorry, Sherlock, I still can't speak Russian. As disturbing as this discovery might seem to you, some of us don't actually learn foreign languages by osmosis.“

 

“It says ' _Autograph of the poem: State Literature Museum, Moscow'_. The puzzle wasn't about the text itself! It was just about where the manuscript is kept!“

 

“You think– ?“

 

“There has to be a reason why our friend's code name was 'Lermontov', John. Don't you see? It was the KGB's idea of a joke. They were probably laughing about it. ' _Hey, if we hire a former employee of the Literature Museum, can we give him the name of a poet?_ '“

 

“And what has this got to do with the poem?“

 

“If his former place of work is the place where they keep the manuscript, then we have to go there. To the room where the thing is exhibited.“

 

“Yes, great, Sherlock. However brilliant that is … Have you noticed that it's the middle of the bloody night?“ John almost shouted. “In case you don't know, night is when the sun– “

 

“… when the sun, in its orbital motion around Earth, has reached the other side of the planet?“ Sherlock quipped.

 

“Somewhere, Galileo is spinning in his grave,“ John muttered darkly.

 

“Why should that bother us?“

 

“No museum is open at night, Sherlock!“

 

“It doesn't need to be open for me to get in,“ Sherlock replied, his voice downright enthusiastic.

 

♫♪♫

 

“We can't just break in there, Sherlock.“

 

“Shhhh! Quiet.“

 

They were standing hidden in the shadows behind a tree, staring at the entrance of the museum from across the empty street. It was terribly cold, and John tried to tread from one foot to the other without making too much noise. At least the snowfall had lessened due to the bitterly cold wind.

 

“I think someone is inside,“ Sherlock whispered.

 

“Don't be daft. It's almost 2am. Who can be in there at this ungodly– “

 

“Look, there's a light moving behind the window,“ Sherlock hissed.

 

John looked over to the dark building, his heart skipping a beat as a beam of light, probably from a torch, slid across a window pane and disappeared.

 

“Do you think that's him?“ he whispered back. “Our anonymous client?“

 

“Possible,“ Sherlock muttered. He looked like a black panther ready to pounce, every muscle tensing with anticipation. “Maybe this is where he intends to finally reveal himself. Maybe this is where we meet. At the finish line of the paper chase.“

 

“Well, I'm not breaking into a museum, Sherlock. I don't wish to end up in prison. Much less in a Russian one.“

 

“You heard what Mycroft said. He would get us out in a week … Look, there's a window open over there. This is how he got in.“

 

“A week in a Russian prison is not what I– “

 

“Come on.“ Sherlock grabbed John's hand excitedly, not paying any attention to his feeble protests.

 

Maybe it was the fact that they had just crossed the street holding hands, or maybe it was the fact that Sherlock's eyes seemed to sparkle with excitement and glee, but the next thing John knew, he was already climbing up an old drainpipe, following his more agile friend, praying that the rusty thing wouldn't collapse under his weight and swearing quietly at the way his fingers were freezing to the metal.

 

When he reached up, trying to get a grip on the sill of the window through which Sherlock had just disappeared, his arm suddenly threatened to give out, bad shoulder screaming in protest as he tried to pull himself up.

 

He was biting his lip to stop himself from yelling out in pain when suddenly two hands appeared, strong, lean arms pulling him up and inside. He landed on the wooden floor in a heap on top of Sherlock. Both their breaths were coming out in loud, ragged pants as they tried to untangle themselves from each other in the darkness of the empty room.

 

“I think he has already switched off the alarm,“ John suddenly felt Sherlock's lips whisper against the shell of his ear. “Still, I think we better try and stay as quiet as possible. I don't know if there are any security guards about.“

 

The warm puffs of air hitting his ear, the soft lips, the darkness, it all made John feel tongue-tied, and he just nodded, noting how soft Sherlock's curls felt against his cheek.

 

“Alright, give me your hand,“ Sherlock whispered.

 

John extended his hand, and Sherlock pulled him up to his feet. Afterwards, he didn't release John's hand, holding on to it as if it were of the utmost importance that they not accidentally let go of each other.

 

They crept through the dark room, Sherlock's hand warm in his. The floor was chequered with patches of silvery moonlight, and John could vaguely distinguish the outlines of a few glass display cabinets in the dark.

 

Sherlock's eyes seemed to be more adjusted to the dark, though. “19th century is upstairs,“ he  breathed, pointing at a sign, and John shuddered as another one of those soft breaths travelled across his cheek in a warm puff of air.

 

They were walking as quietly as possible, hearts pounding, wincing every time the old floorboards creaked.

 

There was a staircase at the end of one dark corridor, and Sherlock, with his cat-like vision, was navigating them towards it, never releasing John's trembling hand from his hold. “Up there,“ he whispered.

 

John nodded silently again, blood rushing loudly in his ears. Although whether that was from breaking into a museum at night (faced with the prospect of meeting a dangerous stranger) or from Sherlock's warm fingers wrapped around his, he couldn't have said.

 

Each stair step seemed to creak loudly under his feet, and John thought he heard the echo travel through the entire building even though he tried to be quiet. Sherlock, however, seemed to be walking on cat's paws, for all John knew; the man's tread was completely inaudible.

 

At one point, John almost tripped, missing a stair in the dark. Fortunately, he was rescued by Sherlock's almost uncanny reflexes. The man firmly held onto John's hand, swiftly pulling him up and against his coat-clad chest.

 

“Are you alright?“ Sherlock whispered, concern evident in his hushed voice. John wanted to say 'yes', but he felt off-balance and disoriented, and those warm lips were touching his ear again, making it hard for him to gather his thoughts. He gulped and tried to disentangle himself from the folds of Sherlock's black coat, straightening up and distancing himself from those soft, full lips. Yet again, Sherlock did not let go of his hand.

 

“Sherlock! Look! There!“ John suddenly hissed, pointing his shaking finger at the far end of the upstairs corridor.

 

There was a tiny flash of light; it looked as if a torch beam had bounced off a wall, glinting off a door handle.

 

“This way,“ Sherlock whispered, voice rough from excitement, and they crept further into the darkness.

 

John had no idea how many rooms they crossed; there didn't seem to be an end to those winding corridors and dark hallways. Then suddenly, Sherlock was gripping his hand more tightly. “There. The Lermontov room,“ he breathed.

 

And that was when they heard it. A low scraping sound, as if someone were moving furniture across the floor. Sherlock started into a run, pulling John along.

 

The light was definitely coming from the Lermontov room, John realised, and it was moving back and forth rather quickly now.

 

Then everything went black all of a sudden, and John felt himself being shoved against the nearest wall. Sherlock's whole lanky body was suddenly pressed against his, making it impossible for him to breathe. _He's protecting me,_ John's brain suddenly caught up with the crescendo of his thumping heart, _because the last time we were at a museum at night, someone started shooting at us. He's afraid I might get shot._

 

They were standing so close that John could feel Sherlock's heart beat wildly in his chest.

 

Strangely enough, the building had suddenly got eerily quiet. Then there was a peculiar noise coming from somewhere out in the street. As if two feet had just hit the pavement.

 

“No, no, no!“ Sherlock exclaimed, breaking into a run again.

 

They burst into the Lermontov room, but found it already empty. The window was open, just as the one downstairs.

 

Whoever had been in here was gone.

 

Sherlock rushed over to the window and peered out, both hands gripping the sill, sharp eyes searching the darkness. “It's too late. He's gone.“

 

“Sherlock, what's that over there?“

 

There was a chair in front of one of the display cabinets, and without even looking at it, John knew instinctively which cabinet it would turn out to be.

 

They both rushed over to it.

 

The manuscript of Lermontov's poem was still lying inside, untouched.

 

But on top of the cabinet, someone had placed a white porcelain cup.

 

♫♪♫

 

“I don't get it,“ John whispered, breath still coming out in short pants from their mad chase. “You solved the puzzle, didn't you? You led us to the finish line. But our stranger didn't want to meet us, apparently.“

 

“He left us a cup,“ Sherlock said quietly, contemplating this thought for a moment. Then he pulled his gloves out of his pocket, slipping them on, and proceeded to carefully lift the cup off the cabinet.

 

“Do you really think it was him who left it? I mean, after all, it could be the coffee cup of, oh, I don't know, one of the museum attendants … or a cleaner. Maybe someone left it here by mistake.“

 

“Unlikely,“ Sherlock muttered, his silver-grey eyes focused on the cup, gingerly turning it round and round in his gloved hands and holding it up against the moonlight filtering in from outside. John noticed that the delicate porcelain seemed almost translucent. “Unless you think the cleaner drinks his coffee from a cup made some time around 1890.“

 

“It's that old?“ John asked in astonishment, trying to lower his voice the second he realised how careless he had got.

 

“Yes. Our mysterious client left it here for us to find. On top of the exact display cabinet that we were supposed to come to. Notice the way the chair has been moved here so that our stranger could set the cup on top of the cabinet.“

 

“That would mean he is as small as me,“ John suddenly realised, stretching, but not reaching the top of the glass cabinet the way Sherlock just had.

 

“Excellent, John. You are on sparkling form,“ his friend replied, a sincere smile creeping over his face. “Our stranger is either as small as you or smaller.“

 

“But how do we know the chair was moved at all? Maybe this chair has been standing there all along.“

 

Sherlock shook his head energetically. “Fresh scuff marks on the floor, John. This chair was dragged over here, not lifted. Notice it's a very heavy old chair. Our stranger isn't very strong, apparently. No, no, John, the cup was placed here by him. For us to find. That's why we were supposed to come here. So, now the question is, why a cup?“

 

♫♪♫

 

“So, just another puzzle, then?“ John asked once they were back outside. The adrenalin was still pumping through his veins, and he hardly noticed the cold anymore.

 

“I … don't know,“ Sherlock muttered, eyes narrowing. “It's different this time.“

 

“Not some poem or opera?“

 

Sherlock pulled out the delicate little cup from where he had carefully hidden it in his coat. “Indeed,“ he murmured. “It doesn't fit his usual pattern. It's almost as if …“

 

“Almost as if _what_?“ John asked, confused.

 

“… as if this is what it is all about.“

 

“What do you mean?“

 

“… as if _this_ is what he was pointing us towards. All those puzzles … tests we apparently passed … Just to prove that we were worthy of getting _this_.“

 

“I don't get it, Sherlock,“ John insisted. “We could have bought a cup like this at every antique shop, couldn't we?“

 

“Could we?“ Sherlock muttered, squinting at the cup.

 

“What do you mean? What's so special about this one? Why would he want to give it to us?“

 

“I don't know,“ Sherlock muttered, stepping under a street lamp.

 

John could make out a few last snowflakes in the cone of its light. Tiny specks of white, barely visible, driven by a fierce wind.

 

Sherlock lifted the cup up to his eyes and peeked inside again. “It looks as if …“

 

“Sherlock?“

 

“I have to go.“

 

“What?! It's almost morning! We should get back to our ho– “

 

“I have to go visit someone. Go back to the hotel. Try to get a bit of sleep, John.“


	7. General Pause

**Title:** A Very Cold Case

 **Pairing:** (eventual) John/Sherlock

 **Rating:** PG-13 (to be on the safe side)

 **Spoilers:** Vaguely for series 1

 **Warnings:** Mentions of homophobia

 **Summary:** _Violin music, 19_ _ th_ _-century poets, and a string of puzzles, presented to Sherlock by an enigmatic client (or adversary?), who prefers to stay in the shadows_

 

**7\. Chapter: General Pause**

When John finally awoke at around 2pm, it was gently snowing outside.

 

Sherlock hadn't returned, and the bed felt strangely empty without him. Empty and much too large. No! That just couldn't be the case, could it? John was used to sleeping alone, thank you very much.

 

Still, he hadn't slept very well, his dreams filled with breathless chases down dark corridors and images of another museum flashing behind his closed eyes. A surge of panic had gripped him as the first shots had begun to ring in his ears. Shots and the sound of Sherlock's running feet, and then John had suddenly been screaming his throat raw, and …

 

In short, it hadn't exactly turned out to be the restful sleep he had hoped for.

 

It was hours before he finally heard from his friend. And when he did, everything got even more confusing.

 

The text message read:

 

    _Behind Lomonosov University. In the park. SH_

 

A few enquiries – fortunately, the hotel staff on day shift spoke flawless English – and a long trip on the Metro later, John was walking towards the park surrounding the famous university on Sparrow Hills.

 

It was quietly snowing again, the late afternoon light slowly fading into grey, and it took John almost a quarter of an hour to find Sherlock, who was sitting on a bench behind the tall, slightly intimidating university building.

 

John could see his friend from far away as he approached. His straight shoulders were sharply outlined against the grey winter twilight by his black coat, and he was sitting very rigid, back straight as a violin bow, pale face the exact colour of the snow covering the trees along the alley. There was something dramatic about the fact that the park was empty but for the two of them. Maybe it was the way whole flocks of black crows were taking off, emitting loud shrieks, each time John passed a tree. Or maybe it was that Sherlock himself looked a bit like some oversized bird sitting lonely on that bench.

 

John noticed that the detective had brushed the snow off its surface and had spread out his treasures on it: the porcelain cup, looking even more fragile now in the dim light than it had in the darkness, the _Eugene Onegin_ programme booklet, the folded print-out of the Lermontov poem, and the German book with the photograph peeking out from in between its pages (John could see the book's title now; it read: _Symphonie Pathétique_ ).

 

Sherlock didn't seem to be cold (John, for his part, was already shivering from the freezing wind blowing through the park's alleys), and there was a contemplative expression painted across the detective's face.

 

“What are you doing here, sitting in front of this gloomy Stalinist monstrosity in the cold?“ John addressed his friend, carefully lowering himself onto the bench, trying not to upset the strange altar the man had built around himself.

 

“I rather like it, actually,“ Sherlock murmured pensively, without so much as looking up. “I need to think. And gloomy is … good for that.“

 

“Where have you been all day?“

 

“Chemistry lab.“ Sherlock vaguely indicated the university building behind them with a throw-away gesture of his hand. “I know an old professor here who owes me a favour.“

 

“And he let you use his– ?“

 

“Yes,“ Sherlock interrupted him impatiently, “he did. After wining and dining me all day. He actually took me to visit his wife and children. Awful … all of those social niceties! Why on earth are people so keen on doing that to one another? … just because they haven't seen each other in a while … And it was even worse than I expected! All this Russian hospitality, John!“

 

“Oh, the horror!“ John exclaimed, grinning at his sociopathic friend. “I imagine they tortured you with tea and kindness.“

 

“It took me hours to get what I wanted,“ Sherlock scowled defensively.

 

“ _What_ could you _possibly_ find out in a chemistry lab?“

 

Sherlock suddenly grabbed the cup from where it had been resting on the bench and shoved it under John's nose. “There! See that? I discovered it yesterday, outside the museum, but the light from that street lamp was so feeble I couldn't be sure what it was. Some residue. Definitely something very old.“

 

“So?“ John shrugged. “That's what all our cups at Baker Street look like. Either from Earl Grey or from one of your experiments. Mrs Hudson keeps telling me we should scrub them out more often.“

 

“It's a good thing we didn't try to drink any Earl Grey from this cup, John,“ Sherlock muttered darkly. “This residue is arsenic.“

 

John slumped against the backrest of the bench, immediately regretting that action as the cold, wet wood connected with his back and straightening up again. “Wow! So, it definitely wasn't just the coffee cup of one of the cleaners, then.“

 

Sherlock shook his head, black curls somehow looking even darker in the twilight. “No.“

 

“But why did our stranger leave it for us to find? You said this cup might have been what this whole game was all about. But why? Why give this thing to us?“

 

“I have no idea,“ Sherlock replied quietly, setting the cup back onto the bench, next to his book.

 

Then, seconds later, John saw it unfurl. Almost like in slow-motion: the way Sherlock's gaze briefly flickered from the cup to the book and back again … then slowly, more deliberately, back to the book … and then, suddenly …

 

“Oh. _Oh!_ “ His eyes, the colour of the dusk sky, were widening, his sensual lips trembling. “Oh, my God! Could it really be that …?“ He picked up the cup again, carefully lifting it as if it were a precious relic, holding it up in the greying evening light, his gloved hands shaking slightly.

 

“What is it, Sherlock?“

 

“Oh!“

 

“What?! I don't get it. Why would anyone give us a cup with traces of poison in it, but not the actual body? You would think that if someone were to point us in the direction of a crime, they would lead us to the victim of said crime first.“

 

“They don't have to …“ Sherlock murmured, eyes still transfixed on the cup, as if it were a martyr's sacred torture instrument. “It's a cold case.“

 

“What?“

 

“Tchaikovsky, John,“ Sherlock whispered, not taking his eyes off the little porcelain centre of his attention.

 

“What do you mean 'Tchaikovsky'?“

 

“Incredible … So, this is what this game was all about,“ Sherlock muttered, eyes narrowed in thought. “No one ever knew for sure … Everyone kept wondering how, why … No one knew a thing. Until … this very moment.“

 

“Care to explain?“ John enquired desperately.

 

Sherlock's head snapped over to John; his eyes seemed dark and troubled all of a sudden. “The famous Russian composer, Peter Tchaikovsky, died in 1893, John. Allegedly from a cholera infection after drinking contaminated water.“

 

“Allegedly?“

 

“Oh, there have been all sorts of rumours about that. Some do suggest that it could have been suicide. As does Klaus Mann in his novel,“ Sherlock pointed at his German book. “Others say it wasn't suicide at all, but murder. Books have been written about it; theories have been laid out and dropped again. No one knew anything for sure … Until now …“ Sherlock said, lowering his voice to a whisper.

 

“But why … why would anyone murder a composer?“ John asked, looking at the cup in confusion.

 

“What do you think?“ Sherlock's deep voice was level, sounding a bit curious even.

 

“Oh, I don't know. Was his music _that_ bad?“ John joked in exasperation.

 

He could have expected the sharp look he got in response. “No, John.“

 

“Well, I don't know … erm … Was it for money? Did someone try to get their hands on his royalties or something?“ he asked quizzically.

 

With great care, Sherlock put the cup down onto the bench again, as if placing it in a shrine.

 

The dark frown on his face seemed to deepen even more. “Think about it, John. There's _one_ thing that could get you killed back in the 19 th century … that is not to say that it can't get a person killed in our days as well. But … back then, it was practically a death sentence. Especially, if you were famous.“

 

John threw in a wild speculation. “Opposition to the Tsar?“

 

Sherlock shook his head energetically. “That, too. But even more than that …“ He raised his eyes and stared into the distance above the snow-covered tree tops. “Homosexuality, John.“

 

There was a short silence following his words.

 

“Are you serious?“ John whispered.

 

“Oh, I'm not the first one to suggest that,“ Sherlock assured him, not clarifying if he meant the alleged homosexuality or the possible murder of the famous composer.

 

“But … there wasn't a trial, was there?“ John asked, racking his brain. “Not like in Oscar Wilde's case.“

 

“At least not an official one,“ Sherlock said softly.

 

“Are you saying the Tsarist government got rid of him without anyone even knowing about it?“

 

“That's exactly what I'm saying, yes.“

 

“And you think this cup is …“

 

“Yes.“

 

Somewhere up in the trees, a crow emitted an ear-splitting screech, causing John to flinch and  shiver involuntarily.

 

“He was famous,“ Sherlock said quietly. “Very much so. Even in his lifetime. A jewel in the crown of the 19th-century Russian Empire. A trial would have meant exposure. A scandal of European proportions. They found … another way.“

 

♫♪♫

 

They returned to their hotel in silence, Sherlock cradling the cup in his hands the entire time on the Metro.

 

It was in their hotel room that they stumbled upon the next surprise.

 

“A postcard. Look, Sherlock. On the bed. A postcard from Mrs Hudson. How is that possible? I only wrote to her two days ago.“

 

Sherlock snatched the item in question out of John's hand.

 

“This card is not from Mrs Hudson, John.“

 

“Yes, it is. Look, it's her handwriting,“ John pointed out as both of them leaned over the postcard in unison, foreheads touching softly in a brief moment of intimacy.

 

“It's fake. A good fake, though,“ Sherlock disagreed, flipping the postcard over. “Looks like someone is playing a prank on us. Well, whoever wrote this certainly has a bizarre sense of humour. You sent Mrs Hudson a postcard with a picture of the Kremlin wall, didn't you? And what do we get in return? Eagle House, Mitcham! Who the hell sends people postcards of Eagle House, John?! A Queen Anne architecture enthusiast?“

 

“How do you know it's not from Mrs Hudson, though? Maybe the Russian postal system just works really fast,“ John argued.

 

Sherlock snorted loudly at that. “A) because Mrs Hudson would know better than to send me a picture of a school for autistic children; b) there is no stamp or address on this thing, and c) the postal system, John? _Seriously?!_ “

 

“Well, maybe we should read it first,“ John huffed indignantly.

 

They both bowed their heads over the card again, Sherlock's soft locks grazing John's cheek in the process. The postcard read:

 

    _Dear Mr. Holmes,_

 

_I hope you like your present. Please accept it as an acknowledgment of my_

_deepest gratitude for the favor you have done me. You have proven worthy of it._

_I have put the second part in the center drawer of your nightstand. I hope it will_

_provide further insight into the matter and give you something to think about in_

_the near future._

_I trust we will see each other again_ – _or, rather, that you will spot and recognize_

_yours truly. I would be honored by your presence should you ever choose to join us_

_again in the future._

 

_Sincerely yours,_

_I. A._

 

“'Again'? Sherlock, who is this postcard from?“

 

“I've got no idea,“ Sherlock muttered, climbing over the bed and pulling open the drawer of the bedside table. Lying inside was a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

 

“What's this?“

 

“We'll find out in a second.“


	8. Finale – Allegro con fuoco & Coda

**Title:** A Very Cold Case

 **Pairing:** (eventual) John/Sherlock

 **Rating:** PG-13 (to be on the safe side)

 **Spoilers:** Vaguely for series 1 & one tiny reference to book!canon in this chapter

 **Warnings:** Mentions of homophobia

 **Summary:** _Violin music, 19_ _ th_ _-century poets, and a string of puzzles, presented to Sherlock by an enigmatic client (or adversary?), who prefers to stay in the shadows_

 

**8\. Chapter: Finale – Allegro con fuoco**

Sherlock ripped open the parcel, long, impatient fingers getting caught in the kraft paper, and revealed a folder, its pages tattered and yellowing, the spine creased. John could barely make out the almost illegible lettering on its cover – the ink had faded so much. The thing was old; that much was obvious.

“Oh, my God!“ Sherlock exclaimed, tracing the curved letters with his long, white index finger.

“What is it, Sherlock?“

“'The second part', indeed,“ Sherlock muttered, flipping the file open and looking at a page covered with elegant Cyrillic letters.

“What does it say?“

The detective looked up from the file.

They were both sitting on the bed now, side by side, their shoulders touching, and John suddenly realised that he had probably never seen his friend's eyes from this close before; they were slate grey and stormy.

“This is the transcript of the interrogation the Tsarist secret service subjected Tchaikovsky to,“ Sherlock whispered, shoulder slumping against John. “For example, here it says: ' _We have been informed by someone in your environment that you are guilty of transgression against nature'_ ,“ he translated quickly. “Somebody ratted him out, John.“

Sherlock traced the next line with his finger, lips moving silently, elegant eyebrows furrowing even more. “They didn't even tell him who'd done it … And here … Oh, God! … They go on and on about 'the law of morality' and 'divine law' … and … and … 'the laws of nature' … tradition … church … monarchy …“

“People are stupid, Sherlock,“ John said quietly.

“Well, that's what I keep saying,“ Sherlock replied dryly. “Oh, God, just look at this … this …“

“Rubbish?“

“Worse! … Filth! If it were just dull and repetitive, well yes, then it would be rubbish. But this … this … “ He was visibly shaking now. “ … cut short the life of one of Europe's greatest minds.“

He flipped through a few more pages, face distorted in disgust. “Here they actually use the word 'sodomy'… And here it says: ' _The accused does not reply._ ' God, John, that's Tchaikovsky they're talking about!“

Sherlock flung the offending file on the bed and jumped up. John was certain he had never seen his friend so agitated before.

“It was the 19th century, Sherlock,“ he tried to placate the upset man. “It was bad everywhere back then.“

Sherlock didn't reply. He was standing at the window now, back turned to the room, watching the veil of snow drift by in the darkness. One of his palms was pressed against the window pane; it almost looked as if he felt trapped. _Like an animal in a zoo,_ it suddenly occurred to John for some reason. Sherlock's shoulders were quickly moving up and down, as if his breaths were coming out in short, silent bursts.

“But why would anyone send this to _you_ , Sherlock?“ John asked cautiously. “It's a fascinating story, I get it. The long-forgotten case of the execution of a famous composer. But why give this knowledge to you? Why give it as a present?“

There was a long silence as Sherlock visibly calmed down.

For a while, it looked as if John wouldn't get an answer at all. Sherlock just stood there, forehead pressed against the window pane, staring into the darkness, back rigid, every single vertebra visible through the thin material of his shirt.

Finally, he drew a deep breath. “This person … our anonymous client …  he seems to know a lot about me, John,“ Sherlock uttered, voice so deep that the window pane seemed to vibrate slightly.

“You mean he knows you like Tchaikovsky?“ John provided, not sure where this was going.

“He knows much more than that,“ Sherlock said sotto voce.

From where John sat on the bed, he could only see the back of Sherlock's head, his silky, black curls, and the reflection of one sharp cheekbone in the window pane.

“Much more,“ Sherlock whispered. “It's as if he wants to point out that … that it's not _like that_ anymore. Remember the postcard? It says this would give me 'something to think about' … to realise that it's not the 19 th century anymore, that things have changed … Well, not in every country, of course. And not for everybody,“ he added under his breath, still not looking at John. “But still … it's a different world now. He's pointing that out. He's pointing it out _to me_.“

John held his breath, not sure if he should interrupt this quiet monologue. Looking at the tall, svelte frame of his friend leaning against the window, he had felt his eyes go wide just moments ago.

“Did you …“ John hesitated for a second. “Did you just come out to me?“ he whispered.

From the direction of the window, there came a quiet sigh. “Does it matter?“

“No! … No, God, no, of course not. It's fine … It's all fine, remember?“ John stuttered, hesitating again. “But … _did you?_ “ he breathed.

Sherlock turned around swiftly, and John felt his chest tighten at the sight of his friend, his heart going out to the forlorn-looking man. There was a wistful expression on that pale face, a silent pain etched into those sharp features, some dark loneliness that John knew nothing about.

And then, just as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. Sherlock's eyes had accidentally fallen on the postcard still lying on their bed, and suddenly he let out a triumphant roar, apparently completely forgetting what they had just been talking about.

“Orel! Oh, my God! Orel, John!“

“Yes … er … Sorry, what?“ John tried to collect himself.

“Stupid, _stupid_ me! It's so obvious.“ Sherlock started laughing so hysterically at that that John, for his part, was beginning to fear for his friend's sanity. “Orel! Oh, what a sense of humour!“

“So, now we're back to our agent friend? I thought Lermontov-Orel, or whatever his name was, is dead? How can he be involved in this?“

“Well, he _is_ dead. But that doesn't mean he didn't leave anyone.“

“You mean … like a wife?“

“Widow, John. And yes, that's exactly who I had in mind. We'll ask Mycroft about that, but I'm sure that was one of those minor details he wanted to mention when I _so rudely_ interrupted him.“ Sherlock actually scrunched up his nose at that.

“How can you be so certain he even had a wife?“ John asked, blinking quickly in confusion.

“Oh, you'll love this.“

A long arm snaked around John, pulling at the black coat lying on the bed, and the next thing John knew, Sherlock had taken the programme booklet out of his coat pocket.

“I. A., John! The postcard suggests I've seen _her_ before. And, indeed, I have. I've admired her, actually.“

“Her?“

The booklet was shoved under John's nose.

“Yes, her, John. Irene Adler. American soprano. She sang Tatyana, as you will probably remember.“

John looked at the picture of the elegant woman in the booklet. “Sherlock, _that_ could just be a coincidence, you know.“

Sherlock kneeled down in front of him, both hands gripping John's shoulders, eyes shining with intensity. “It's not a coincidence. Don't you see?“

“Er … no,“ John replied, trying to catalogue the feeling of Sherlock's warm hands on his shoulders. It felt nice. Better than nice, actually. Just as good as that one night when …

“Orel! Don't you see, John? We know that the last _nom de guerre_ our agent used was 'Orel',“ Sherlock said pointedly. “'Orel' (or ' _орёл_ ') means 'eagle' in Russian.“

“As nice a name as that actually is, I still don't get it,“ John muttered, noticing how the grip of those strong hands on his shoulders tightened.

“Irene Adler. 'Adler' is the German word for 'eagle', John. What a fun couple the two of them must have been! The refined, cosmopolitan criminal mastermind and the shrewd opera singer. Look, she even sent us a postcard of _Eagle_ House, just to tease us a bit.“

“Oh.“

“Yes, and it must have been easy for her to get us tickets for her own performance at the Bolshoi, to bribe one of the staff to give us the programme she had tampered with beforehand. Even that note I got from her at Baker Street had a tiny allusion to the Bolshoi in it. 'Bolshoi' means 'grand' in Russian, John … And then, the old man in the spice shop …“

“What about him?“

“Didn't you wonder how he could afford the rent in central Moscow? Have you seen the other shops in that street? … No, no, no … somebody paid the rent for him, somebody with a lot of money … an old friend sending cheques from abroad.“

“You mean … Orel?“

Sherlock nodded. “Apparently, Orel looked out for his old pal, the shop owner, even after leaving the country. The old man owed him for that … So, now his friend's widow turns up and asks him to do her a favour – to pass on a message to two strangers in some sort of game. And, of course, the old man cannot refuse her. But he gets a bit suspicious. He knows her late husband was involved with the KGB some time ago, and he doesn't want any trouble with the current secret service.“

John looked down at his friend kneeling in front of him. Sherlock's grey eyes were shining in the darkness; apparently, he wasn't willing to get up just yet.

“But if Lermontov-Orel died a few years ago, how come his widow, Mrs Adler, started this whole game now of all times?“ John asked in confusion.

“Postcard says I've proven worthy of getting the present,“ Sherlock murmured pensively, his hands sliding down onto John's knees. John shivered, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice. “… not just because I solved her puzzles, no. I've done something else, I think … Remember how Mycroft suggested that Orel's crime syndicate had clashed with Moriarty's in the past?“

“Oh, my God, Sherlock, and you've killed Moriarty a few weeks ago,“ John gasped.

“I've proven worthy,“ Sherlock nodded quietly.

“She gave this to you because you got rid of an enemy of her late husband?“

“Yes.“

“But that can only mean …“

“That her husband died, but his syndicate didn't die with him. And that they are expanding now.“

John shivered.

“Expanding to the UK, John … Irene Adler could very well be the next Moriarty. At least she seems to be taking over her husband's role at the moment.“

“But that still doesn't explain how she and her husband got their hands on Tchaikovsky's file, which is probably still beyond top secret. How they got the cup.“

Sherlock's eyes squinted for a moment. “Not unless …“

He took his hands off John's knees, and the spot where they had just been felt strangely cold all of a sudden. John gulped, trying to regain his composure.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had already grabbed his phone and was furiously typing away on it. It looked as if he were googling something.

“Give me that ghastly file again, will you,“ he muttered.

John lifted the folder off the bed, careful not to tear the old, yellowing paper, and Sherlock immediately bowed his head over it again, flipping through the pages and muttering to himself.

“Appalling! They actually call him 'animal' here … Him! Tchaikovsky! One of the greatest minds of … I don't even want to know what they did to him … But … why actually? _Why?_ “ He looked up suddenly, eyes narrowing as if he were onto something. “John, _why_ were they actually interrogating him? Why didn't they just get it over with? Why interrogate someone at length,“ he pointed at the thick folder, “if you want to just get rid of them?“

John shrugged. “Maybe they wanted him to tell them something first?“

Sherlock nodded, eyes going back to the page. “Indeed …“

He read a few more paragraphs without translating them. Then he looked up again. “They didn't just murder him. They … offered him a deal, John,“ he whispered.

“A deal?“

“Yes.“ Sherlock's long, graceful finger hovered over a sentence as if he were too disgusted to actually touch the page.

“What did they want?“

“A name.“

Their eyes met.

“You mean …?“

Sherlock nodded again. “Tchaikovsky was tremendously famous, John. They didn't want him to die. They just wanted him to get rid of his … _sin_ ,“ he snarled. “They wanted to kill the man he loved. But apparently, whoever had ratted him out didn't know the full story. And _that's_ why the secret service interrogated Tchaikovsky at such great length. They wanted the name of his lover.“

John shook his head. “That's quite disturbing.“

“And then they proposed a deal to him,“ Sherlock continued, pointing at the same paragraph again.

“They would let him live if … _if_ he gave them the name.“

“And?“ John whispered, although he already knew where this was going.

“It says here, on every page: _'The accused does not reply'_ ,and _'The accused remains silent'_. He didn't take the deal, John … They killed him.“

A strange silence descended on the room, one of those silences that people are aware of without knowing how to end them.

“Who do you think it was then, his lover?“ John whispered finally.

“Some historians do suggest that it was his nephew.“

“Now, that seems … wrong.“

Sherlock shrugged. “It could have been someone else, though … Actually, I think his relationship with his nephew _was_ innocent. I think there _was_ someone else … someone in the shadows.“

“Who do you think it was, then?“

Sherlock picked up his phone again and extended it towards John. On its display, there was a picture.

“Yeah, well, Sherlock, that's a woman. Do I have to explain to you what the term 'homosexual' actually means?“

“You _certainly_ don't,“ Sherlock scowled. “And this is Nadezhda von Meck. She was Tchaikovsky's loyal supporter for many years. A renowned patron of the arts at the time.“

“The fact still stands that she is _a woman_.“

“Who had sons, I assure you,“ Sherlock hissed.

“Are you saying …?“

The man shrugged his lean shoulders again. “Shot in the dark. But I just _know_ there's something.  Nadezhda von Meck fell out with Tchaikovsky at some point. No one ever knew why … And then, does her face remind you of anyone?“

John looked down at the phone's display again. “I don't … know. Yes. Maybe. But I don't know of whom …“

“John, I suspect our friend Orel, or whatever his name was, was a descendant of the Meck family.“

“You think– ?“

“Think about it. A young man grows up in Soviet Russia, knowing he is somehow related to Nadezhda von Meck, who was one of the closest friends of Tchaikovsky. He is rather poor and doesn't get any proper education, but he's good at self-educating. He is a proud descendant of the von Mecks, after all. He works at the Literature Museum, soaking up knowledge like a sponge … When the KGB tries to recruit him, he finally sees his chance. Either to a better life. Or to find out what had happened to that famous composer, the close friend of his ancestor von Meck. After being recruited, he somehow manages to get access to the KGB archives. Well, and those archives must hold some unique and long-forgotten items, secrets the public will never know about, handed down from generation to generation. From the secret service of the Russian Empire, _Okhrana_ ,to the Cheka, the NKVD, the KGB and eventually to the FSB. Some parts of those archives are still off-limits to historians. And many people would pay a fortune to get a peek at those parts, I assure you … Yes, even my brother would.“

“So, you're saying Orel just nicked this stuff?“

“Well, he must have started his criminal career _somewhere_ ,“ Sherlock snorted. “ _And_ he was interested in finding out what had happened to Tchaikovsky. After all, he was the only person in the world who could put together the two pieces of the jigsaw puzzle: the rumours and stories he had heard in his family and the findings of the Russian secret service … Because, as we can see from this file, the secret service didn't know who Tchaikovsky's lover was; they didn't know he was one of the Meck family. The Meck family, for their part, didn't know what had happened to Tchaikovsky; they weren't aware of the fact that he had been murdered. Now, Orel was the first one to put those two pieces of the puzzle together.“

“Yes, Sherlock, but that still doesn't explain why I seem to recognise Meck's face.“

The detective smiled. “That's where this story leads to … So, as I said, Orel steals the cup and the file from the archives. He keeps them. Maybe for sentimental reasons … who knows … people do that sometimes. Apparently, no one notices them going missing; they have probably been lying around on some dusty old shelf for decades. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Orel goes underground, emigrates to the US and turns into an infamous mafia boss. And _all this time_ , he keeps the cup and the file. Eventually, he marries, takes the name 'Orel' as an homage to his wife's name, and tells her about his family history. Probably on the day their son is born becau– “

“Hang on … _Their son?_ “

“Yes, their son, John!“ Sherlock exclaimed impatiently. “Don't make me say everything twice. Orel's and Adler's son.“ He whipped out the photograph of the young violinist and shoved it under John's nose.

“That's … uncanny,“ John breathed, “ … he looks … he looks just like Nadezhda von Meck … Same straight nose … dark eyes … So, _that's_ why her face seemed so familiar.“

“The last descendant of Nadezhda von Meck. The last descendant of _one of her sons_ , who was …“

“… the man Tchaikovsky was in love with?“

“Probably, yes … Seems as if our young violinist here is innocent, after all. It wasn't he who sent us the cup and the picture. It was his mother, Irene Adler. What a woman – oh, what a woman! It wasn't just her voice I admired at the Bolshoi a few days ago. Her agility on stage was equally impressive, don't you think? … She must have climbed those museum walls like a cat,“ Sherlock smiled. “It makes so much sense now … I got rid of Moriarty for her. She gave me a photograph as a reward. _Her son's photograph!_ A proof that the descendant of the man Tchaikovsky loved is alive and well – and, apparently, striving for a career in music.“

“So, if Tchaikovsky had taken the deal,“ John suddenly realised, feeling beads of sweat break out on the back of his neck, “then this young man, Adler's son, would have never existed?“

“Exactly. Neither would have his father, Orel. Tchaikovsky died protecting the secret of his lover's name. If he hadn't, this young wunderkind here would have never been born.“

“ _But_ … Tchaikovsky would have survived. And would have written more great music,“ John pointed out.

“Well, that's what you call a dilemma, John,“ Sherlock's deep voice stated quietly.

There was a long silence after that.

Sherlock was still sitting on the floor in front of John. The long fingers of his left hand were playing idly on his bony knee.

Outside, the snow was coming down in thick, soft flakes now. For a minute, it seemed as if they were the only people in the world, the silence swallowing all sounds and darkness plunging them into a surreal winter dream.

“There is a recurrent theme here, John,“ Sherlock finally broke the silence, “call it a leitmotif if you will. A leitmotif to this whole puzzle. 'The grandest puzzle of them all'.“

John couldn't really make out his friend's eyes in the darkness anymore, but it almost seemed as if his deep voice was carefully casual now.

“What theme would that be?“ John asked, his own voice hoarse for some reason.

“Death and the cause for which– “

“I'm certain you're not exactly the first one to wonder why people die,“ John interrupted him, trying for a joke and failing miserably; somehow his laugh came out as a croak.

Sherlock shook his head thoughtfully. “That's not what I meant. Think about it … Lermontov: dying, duelling over a joke,“ he whispered. “Foolish. He died, and thus his career ended. God knows how many more poems he would have written had he lived … Lenski in _Eugene Onegin_ :dying in a duel as well. Jealousy. How very foolish … Pushkin himself: dying, duelling over a woman. Jealousy again. Probably an intrigue. Foolish, all of them. Their deaths: pointless … And then, there is this other death. So very different. Tchaikovsky's death. A death to protect a secret … Dying to protect the person you love, to protect them from being killed; that's … different – and all the more tragic.“

John raised his eyes slowly to meet the detective's calculating gaze.

“The grandest puzzle of them all. Solve it and you win the grand prize … A life! A life Tchaikovsky never had,“ Sherlock said, his voice suddenly very quiet. “In Pushkin's novel, Eugene Onegin is described as the ultimate cynic. His cynicism towards the softer emotions drives him to reject love and ultimately destroys his life. Because when he finally admits that he _is_ in love, it's already too late … Maybe _that's_ what I'm being pointed towards by Irene Adler: that being a bored cynic can make you blind to– “ Sherlock faltered, looking down at his hands. “The grandest puzzle of them all, John. It goes: If someone's willing to die to protect your life, what are they to you?“

John thought he could suddenly hear the blood rushing in his ears, and his eyes closed of their own volition, images beginning to flash through his mind:

 _Moriarty laughing madly._ – _Sherlock playing his violin._ – _A darkened swimming pool, water gently lapping at its sides._ – _Snowflakes in Sherlock's hair as they stroll across Red Square._ – _A cabbie holding a pill to his mouth._ – _Bright_ y _ellow Chinese characters on a wall._ – _Sherlock smiling, really smiling._ – _Mycroft twirling his umbrella._ – _Sherlock's exposed white neck._ – _Mrs Hudson calling them a couple time and again, smile never faltering._ – _The feeling of the explosives strapped to his body._ – _Sherlock's languid eyes at the Bolshoi, his soft lips moving silently._ – _The gun in Sherlock's hand._ – _Sherlock sleeping, arms wrapped around the pillow John has put there._ – _And_ _Sarah's compassionate smile_ … _And then_ …

Then he was hit by another rush of images:

 _Darkness. His eyes are closed. Everything hurts. He thinks he hears Mycroft's voice somewhere. Angry. Shouting. And then there's a stained hospital ceiling. And John thinks he sees Sherlock sitting in a plastic chair beside his bed and_ … _Is Sherlock crying? Or is it just that John is so high on painkillers that he's hallucinating now? In any case, it looks as if Sherlock's shoulders are shaking violently, as if Lestrade is putting a big, comforting hand on one of them_ …

John cleared his throat.

“I'm … not gay, Sherlock,“ he whispered hoarsely. “I'm sorry.“

He opened his eyes, noticing how his friend had averted his. It looked as if Sherlock's pale throat were working.

“I know.“

It was the deepest John had ever heard his voice sound, and it made him shiver more than the cold in the room.

“I know …“ Sherlock suddenly clarified, “ … I know that you're sorry.“ He looked up, meeting John's gaze levelly. There was something in his astute eyes, something …

“Psychosomatic limp! Psychosomatic love life!“ Sherlock suddenly blurted out.

And now John could see what it was – a tiny enigmatic smile in those dazzling grey eyes.

“Sherlock, I don't think the term 'psychosomatic love life' exis– “

“I will kiss you now.“

Sherlock's face was suddenly very near. And that was the moment John's body chose to betray him: John felt his eyes close and his head give a tiny nod.

It was the gentlest he had ever been kissed; he was certain of that. The lips meeting his were maddeningly soft, full and warm, and he felt a shudder pass through his entire body when both their mouths opened for the briefest fraction of a second.

Then Sherlock pulled back again. But from the warm breath caressing John's face, it was obvious that he was still kneeling in front of him.

For a second, John struggled to remember how to open his eyes, and when he did, he was met with one of the shyest smiles he had ever seen on Sherlock's face. With a smile, not unlike the bashful ones the detective sometimes gave him after being complimented for his brilliance.

They looked at each other, and it was as if a violin bow had swept over a string, defining the now, defining this very moment as the most important one in both their lives. Who would have thought that that bow could shoot arrows?

John gave another nod, feeling as if he had just placed a finger on that violin string and produced a tone. And somehow, that tone turned into a theme, their theme. And that theme sprang up and enveloped them in G minor or maybe some other key that John didn't recognise. But it was the key that would open every door from now on, and it had undoubtedly been the key to his soul, that he now handed to the man kneeling in front of him.

“John,“ Sherlock said, extending his slender violinist's hand and gently cupping John's cheek. It was clear that something had transpired between them.

Then the tall man suddenly leapt to his feet, graceful like a predator cat, and started to unbutton his expensive shirt.

“Wait! What are you doing? … Do you want to … us … we … with me? … I don't even know how to …“ John heard his own voice come out shaky, hoarse and slightly panicked.

“Relax. We're just going to sleep. Every sonata takes its time. Who am I to jump from the exposition straight to the Devil's trills?!“

“O-okay,“ John replied, mouth going strangely dry at the sight of the ivory chest being bared in front of him. He'd never seen his friend like this before, and it was surprising, breathtaking, shocking …

Sherlock's chest was actually wider than seemed possible underneath those narrow-cut shirts. Pale, flawless, hard, surprisingly muscular and … And since when did John actually notice other men's muscles? When had this whole thing started?

Sherlock kept his trousers on. Probably to underline his earlier point about sonatas and trills. He toed off his shoes and socks and stood there in front of John, all long limbs and narrow hips.

“Bed, John.“

 

 

 

♫♪♫

 

 

 

They were lying under the duvet, facing each other in the darkness, and Sherlock's hand had crept over to John's naked shoulder, fingertips sliding over his scar as if it were a violin string.

“I miss your violin,“ John whispered, because that sounded better than saying: _I want to go home. I miss our flat. Can we kiss like that every day from now on? I won't kiss anyone else again if we do. I wouldn't want to, anyway_ … _Do you think it's too early to be saying that I'm falling hard for you?_

“Sherlock?“

“Hm?“

“Can I touch you?“ John whispered, feeling incredibly awkward. After all, he had flat-out rejected the man earlier. And now …

But instead of laughing at him, Sherlock silently took John's trembling hand and placed it on his hard, warm chest. John could feel the lazy beat of his friend's heart under his fingertips. A heart he had once believed didn't exist.

And that was how he fell asleep, head tucked into the crook of Sherlock's neck, breathing in the man's scent, hand on his chest, half-exhausted and half-aroused … and to Sherlock's warm lips kissing his ear again and again.

 

**Title:** A Very Cold Case

 **Pairing:** John/Sherlock

 **Rating:** PG

 **Spoilers:** Vaguely for series 1 & two tiny references to book!canon in this part

 **Warnings:** None for this part

 **Summary:** _Violin music, 19_ _ th_ _-century poets, and a string of puzzles, presented to Sherlock by an enigmatic client (or adversary?), who prefers to stay in the shadows_

 

 

**Coda**

 

It was already spring in London, and John was actually quite happy they had found those two aeroplane tickets lying under the infamous cup the next morning. Even though it had been creepy to imagine someone had come into their room while they had been sleeping, entwined like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle finally assembled.

But it was spring now, and they were back home. And Sherlock was playing that nice Tchaikovsky thing again. And that was good, all things considered.

A few weeks had passed since their return, and everything seemed to have gone back to the way things had been before. And yet …

Sherlock had started touching him more often, a warm hand on his shoulder here, a small pat on his head there, a ruffle to his hair, a gentle caress, the back of those elegant violinist's fingers brushing John's cheek while Sherlock's other hand cupped his elbow. Fleeting gestures, made in passing, like _pianissimo_ trills on a violin string. And yet profoundly new to John. Just as new as the feeling of belonging all of this sent through him. Although he didn't know how to respond, flustered as he was.

They had kissed only once since that one time in Russia. But then, maybe that was their own slow tune that they were playing, and they didn't need a conductor telling them at what pace to progress.

The kiss had happened at a crime scene Lestrade had brought them to. The circumstances of the murder had turned out to be 'dull, dull, dull', as Sherlock hadn't missed an opportunity to point out.

A murder at a building site.

At one point, John had taken a few steps to the side, and suddenly a board in the scaffold had given way under his feet, and he had disappeared into the darkness.

Fortunately, the fall hadn't been too deep, and he had only sprained his ankle. Then, while he had still been struggling to get up, he had suddenly heard quick steps coming towards him, and a very distraught Sherlock had appeared next to him, grabbing him and shouting, “John, tell me you are alright! Please, tell me you are alright!“

Upon realising that John was still breathing and in one piece, Sherlock had grabbed him by the lapel and had given him the wildest, most desperate kiss he had ever received from anyone. (That actually meant two unique kisses out of two!) John had still been reeling with shock (either from the fall or from the passionate kiss) when Sherlock had very clearly and very hoarsely called him, “Mon amour.“

It had been at that moment that John had noticed Lestrade, standing there, looking as if he had just walked into a wall.

After that little accident, they had ended up at the surgery, where Sarah had just been about to start her shift, and every time she had touched John's ankle while examining it, Sherlock's eyes had dangerously sparkled at her. A fact that had, admittedly, caused John's heart to hammer wildly in his chest. When, at one point, she had actually dared to encouragingly smile at her patient, Sherlock had grabbed John's hand, holding it for the rest of the examination and staring her down aggressively.

Sarah, for her part, had been openly gaping at them by then. Admittedly, that frozen stare had soon turned into a smug, told-you-so grin.

There had been no further messages from I. A. after their return from Moscow.

One morning, however, Sherlock had suddenly lept up from his chair, pointing at an article in the _Daily Telegraph_ he had just been reading. Apparently, an up-and-coming, young violinist was about to appear on stage in London. His name was Norton Adler, and his picture had looked awfully familiar.

Then, a few days ago, John had been subject to one of Mycroft's kidnappings again.

The man had taken one look at him and had stopped calling him Sherlock's boyfriend. Apparently, he had realised that it wasn't just a joke anymore.

And while John had still been trying to unthink the word 'boyfriend', because, no, no, no, it was _far_ too early to be even thinking of that, Mycroft had cleared his throat and said, “I know that you don't see your therapist anymore. Do you want me to look up another one for you? A good one?“

John had been about to angrily protest this intrusion into his private life when he had noticed the sincerity in Mycroft's usually oh-so-posh voice.

“Why would I need one?“

“Because you're not going to go through that sexual identity crisis in a few weeks. It will not go away instantly just because you've fallen in love with another man. Trust me. At the very least, you'll be needing good friends.“

John's cheeks had flushed at the words 'fallen in love',and he had muttered something about sonatas and expositions. Mycroft, for his part, had just given him one of those amused, dirty little smiles, which had made it clear that he had got the musical metaphor completely wrong … or right … Who could know that, anyway?

Later, at home, John had got a text message with the number of a therapist and the slightly confusing advice, ' _Also, get yourself a French dictionary. MH'_.

John had replied, ' _Doesn't your mother speak English at home?_ '

Mycroft's reply had come promptly, ' _She does. – The dictionary is for something else entirely. After all, you would like to be able to understand what is being said to you in the bedroom, wouldn't you? MH'_.

And while John's mind had still been reeling from this abrasive and downright vulgar message, the next text had already appeared on his phone's display, ' _Oh, and no, I didn't find that out by putting microphones in Sherlock's mattress; his ex-boyfriend told me. MH'._

John had not shown the texts to Sherlock, but, of course, the man had discovered them a few hours later. At least John had assumed that had been the case. Because something hitherto unheard-of had happened: Sherlock had picked up the phone and had actually dialled a number. The shouting that ensued had probably woken up the whole of Baker Street, “I'm going to kill you, Mycroft! And I'd kill Victor, too, if he weren't already dead.“

 

 

 

♫♪♫

 

 

 

Recently, Sherlock had started to complain about how 'unbearably cold' his bedroom allegedly was, which was a blatant lie, made even more colourful by his claim that John's bedroom was the warmer of the two. And every time Sherlock – the man who hadn't so much as shivered in the Russian winter – had said it, John had felt a flutter of panic in his stomach. Panic, trepidation and maybe something else as well … Eventually, he would find out what it was, wouldn't he?

Maybe even today …

… because Sherlock was playing that Tchaikovsky thing again, the one which had served as a prelude to this whole adventure.

He was standing in the middle of their sitting room, shirt-sleeves rolled up, hands working the violin, eyes closed, a small crease forming between his brows. And it looked as if he were playing not so much for the two of them as for a small porcelain cup sitting on the shelf.

A cup, the colour of snow and of Sherlock's hands. A cup that couldn't possibly know anything about the beauty of the melody he was pouring into it. A cup that was just a dispassionate object.

But then, sometimes you were wrong calling something 'dispassionate', John realised.

It was white and delicate and seemed to speak of the horror and beauty of being willing to die for the one you loved, which was, indeed, the grandest puzzle of them all.

 

 

(Da capo al) fine :║

 

* * *

(A/N: And, of course, Sherlock is playing P. I. Tchaikovsky's [Valse sentimentale](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rUuusqy50yk) again.)


End file.
